


A Study in the Mind of the Average Male University Student

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, Background Case, Bars and Pubs, Crack, Dating, Explicit scenes are skippable, Facebook, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description of Social Media, Group chat, Humor, Just look in the beginning notes, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sherlock Is Bad At Flirting, Slow Burn, Social Media, Stalking, Technology, Texting, Unilock, so much pining, when i say slow burn i mean it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-03-04 20:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 64,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13372128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: "How do I undo this? How?" Sherlock whispers under his breath, searching for that goddamn button. Shit. Shit shit shit shit— "Shit!"It takes him a minute to regain control over his shaking hand to unlike the picture, not exactly knowing if it will still appear in John's notifications or anything like that. If he is currently online, he must have seen it. Shit. Oh god. He accidentally liked a stranger's picture from two years ago. Sherlock wants to bang his head on a wall. Set his phone on fire. No, better— set himself on fire.





	1. The stalker who made one mistake

**Author's Note:**

> You all know those group chats where everybody starts chit-chatting casually but in fact you end up with 300 unread messages per day? Your phone can't stop buzzing? You can't concentrate on your study/work for the life of you? You end up with a group chat nickname that is serious trouble for your reputation? Your private life is nonexistent? Your friends look at the last messages you got and go "what the fuck?" 
> 
> Yeah, this is that kind of fic. 
> 
> (Okay, so this started as a silly ficlet but since it kind of ended on a cliffhanger, I had to make to continue it. I have no idea how long it will be in the end, or if the rating will change, I'm just making it up as I go. Oops.)

Sherlock opens the blue and grey application he barely ever visits with the kind of contained excitement he always tries to tame with forceful reluctance. Having one of these pages is practical, if anything, especially when it comes to deductions and gaining easy information on people, but also to hypothesize on the different behavioral structures of human beings as heard animals. It is truly a circus of the human condition, Sherlock always says, with the pictures, meaningless posts, the emojis and whatnot. There are barely any information about him on his profile, just a name, a date of birth and the name of the university he goes to. Anything more could be easily tracked and used against him. Do people know how many serial killers obtain information through this kind of profiles? Anyway, if people want to know more about him and his methods, they can always read _The Science of Deduction_ , which is linked on his profile.

So yes, if Sherlock uses that application, it's solely for _practical purposes_.

He tries to convince himself of that as he opens the search bar. He does not even have to write the name in there, it already appears as his last search (he should delete it more often, he thinks, if someone ever happens to crack his password and access his data). _John Watson_. Sherlock sinks further on his bed, curls tangling on his pillow, and, deciding to let himself enjoy this guilty pleasure, clicks on the name.

John Watson is a year older, shorter, blond, blue-eyed, studies medicine, aspires to be an A&E surgeon, has a sibling that parties too much, and is the captain of the captain of the uni's rugby team. That is what Sherlock had deduced, back in September when he first saw him talking with a bunch of friends in one corner of the cafeteria, completely ruining the sutures he was practicing on his overly-cooked and barely eaten cafeteria steak (that kind of medical knowledge is always important when one hopes to pursue detective work). He had seen him a few times more, mostly at the library before the semester's final exams, and had attended a few rugby games. Okay, all rugby games, really, but with the precaution of always sitting in the back and being the first to leave once the match is over. So yes, Sherlock had already deduced a few things before searching John Watson up on the annoying website, which at least procured him further informations such as his exact date of birth being April 10th, that he has a sister and not a brother, which schools he attended to, etc. etc.

In short, John Watson is perfect. Maybe apart from the fact that his description lacks terribly of any sign of relationship status, not that Sherlock ever believed that he has a chance with him or something like that. Don't be ridiculous.

As usual, Sherlock taps on his phone to access John Watson's pictures, which he fortunately can even though he is not part of the three-hundred and fifty-three friends listed on his profile.

He swipes through the pictures, taking his time to look at each one of them as it were the first time he was seeing them. It's really not. Most of them were uploaded by other people who tagged him in (he sometimes isn't even in the picture — why do people _do_ that?), but there are a few taken by him, in a more respectable way than those selfies everyone likes to do now. There he is. John on a hike. John at a party. John on a trip to Scotland. A four-years-old John eating a piece of cake, gratuity of his sister that likes to post embarrassing pictures on people's birthdays. John with his mates. John graduating from college. Sherlock is a few years back now, John looks to be border-lining on eighteen, maybe. He is smiling to the camera, muscled arms around the shoulders of his teammates, mud in his hair and on his face but he smiles proudly, visibly victorious. The captions reads _First match of the season as a captain, we won!!_ Sherlock smiles to himself. It's probably his favorite picture of the bunch. He double-taps to read the caption again, but his finger slips and…

_Sherlock Holmes and forty-three other people have liked this picture._

Oh no. Shit. Shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshit.

"How do I undo this? _How_?" Sherlock whispers under his breath, searching for that goddamn button. Shit. Shit shit shit shit— "Shit!"

It takes him a minute to regain control over his shaking hand to unlike the picture, not exactly knowing if it will still appear in John's notifications or anything like that. If he is currently connected, he must have seen it. Shit. Oh god. He accidentally liked a stranger's picture from _two years ago_. Sherlock wants to bang his head on a wall. Set his phone on fire. No, better— set _himself_ on fire.

Oh god. He turns on his front, hitting the pillow with his fists, before surrendering to the fact that he will simply have to never leave the flat ever again. To never set foot on the campus again. Hell, to exile himself to another country, to find a cave and—

His phone pings. Oh no no no no no no _no_! He picks it up, opens it, goes on that goddamned application that is Messenger, Facebook's devilish twin, and opens the new message.

 

JW: _Hello?_


	2. Is it Stitch-Guy or a Creep?

John is lying on the sofa, using the last edition of Gray's Anatomy as a very uncomfortable pillow. It's quite late but Mike's sleeping over at his girlfriend's, so it's an amazing opportunity to reclaim the sofa that is usually used by the very happy couple. He is trying to follow the incessant babbling that's happening on their group chat, labelled _Med Babes + Greg_ , and he is just about to answer to Molly's invitation about a party taking place this weekend when his phone pings with a new notification. _Sherlock Holmes and forty-three other people have liked your picture_. He frowns at the screen. Who the hell is that? He would surely remember if he had a friend called Sherlock Holmes, and he has not put any pictures on the website for a few weeks now. He taps on the notification, and the photo of him, after his first victory as a rugby captain appears. He's with Sam and Dev, smiling at the camera. John is not usually a fan of putting pictures on himself on social media but he has to say that he particularly likes this one. Yeah, it's flattering. God, that was two years ago, he thinks with a smile, before remembering why he is looking at this picture again.

Curious, he taps on Sherlock Holmes' name, but there isn't much information on his profile, not even a picture. Just the name John's never heard before, a date of birth (January 6th, 1998, so one year younger than him), and they are apparently studying at the same uni. Has John ever seen him? Talked to him?

He is about to ask on the group chat if someone ever heard of a bloke called Sherlock Holmes before he notices a link on the man's profile, which leads him to a website called _The Science of Deduction_. He snorts, reading the short intro, where the author basically insults everyone and pretends to be a genius. The only person he knows that could be that arrogant is—

Is it? John's heart jumps in his chest. Is Sherlock Holmes _Stitch-guy_ , as John's friends has been calling him for months? That would be one hell of a coincidence, given that John had studied in the physics-chemistry-biology wing of the library for _weeks_ without having the guts to make a move on the curly-haired bloke he had noticed for the first time in the cafeteria while he was attempting to stitch up his steak.

But if it's truly him… that means that he was going through John's pictures, going as far back as two years in the past. And he had liked one of them, even though now the notification was gone. Has anyone stalked someone on social media if they were not interested?

John has to try. He has to.

JW: _Hello?_

He stares at the screen for one or two minutes. Sherlock Holmes has read his message, the application says. He waits for another few minutes, unsure if he is going to get a reply at all. The three little dots appear, meaning that Holmes is typing. They disappear. He waits. They appear again. He waits.

SH: _Hi._

Okay, seriously, five minutes to construct a one-word reply? John smiles to himself.

JW: _Do I know you?_

SH: _No._

JW: _…have I seen you before? :-)_

SH: _Since it appears that we are both attending the same university, the statistical probability of having seen each other on campus grounds is high._

John laughs to himself. Definitely sounds like a genius.

JW: _Okay… Have you seen me before?_

SH: _Maybe._

SH: _No._

SH: _It doesn't matter._

John stands up and goes to the fridge to open a bottle of beer. This sure ought to be interesting, and he cannot stop smiling. Before he can answer, he sees that he has received another message.

SH: _Anyway, sorry to disturb you. I was investigating for a case and my finger slipped._

What? That's the weirdest excuse John has ever got from someone who is clearly interested in him.

JW: _Investigating? :P_

SH: _I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world._

Well, he's definitely not humble. Yet it makes him only more interesting, if anything.

JW: _What's that? And what were you investigating exactly?_

SH: _The police consult me when they're out of their depth. And I would be a terrible detective if I told you what I'm investigating._

JW: _The police doesn't consult amateurs._

SH: _I'm not an amateur._

JW: _Prove it, then. :P_

Aha! He has gotten to him. Obviously Sherlock Holmes can't prove that he is a detective because that's something of a poor lie made up as an excuse for stalking him. It's the only possible explanation, and when the man will admit that he is making it all up, John will ask him for a coffee. Simple. Effective. Good job, Watson, he mentally pats himself.

SH: _You're twenty, studying medicine, aspiring to be an A &E surgeon since you like taking care of people but work best under pressure. You have a sister who has a tendency to party too much, which you don't like, and she has recently broken up. You're estranged from your parents, most likely because your father is an alcoholic and you don't see your mother anymore (dead?). You have money issues, hence the fact that you're living in a small flat with Mike Stamford as a flatmate. And you're obviously the captain of the uni's rugby team. _

SH: _I'm not an amateur._

Okay. Wow. Err. Maybe John is wrong. Maybe this Sherlock Holmes is truly investigating something and not making chit-chat because he's interested or anything.

JW: _Holy shit. That's brilliant. Although now I'm slightly worried you're some kind of old government creep spying on me for Intel or something like that_.

SH: _Brilliant? That's not what people usually say._

SH: _And no, I'm not. Sherlock Holmes, nineteen, chemistry student, if that makes you feel any better._

JW: _What do people usually say?_

SH: _Piss off?_

JW: _People are stupid._

Two minutes of silence, and then: SH: _That's usually my line_.


	3. A single request

Sherlock is staring at his phone, frowning. Why is John Watson so adamant for him to prove that he is truly a consulting detective? Why is he talking to him in the first place, a stranger he's never met? It's been three minutes since the last message, and the ellipsis comes and goes as John is apparently typing.

Panic takes over: what is John Watson trying to do? Sherlock loathes the fact that he cannot see him in person. He gets so often the wrong impression when he messages someone, and if there is something he absolutely cannot fuck up, it's this. Or maybe he will anyway. Oh god. He will anyway.

It's better to put a stop to this, right now.

SH: _As I was saying, I am quite sorry to have disturbed you. It won't happen again. Goodbye._

He taps in the message quickly, and puts his phone back on the table as soon as he is done. No need to dwell upon the matter any longer, after all, he has an experiment on mold he needs to attend to.

His idiotic heart is still being surprisingly fast in his chest. It could have been worse, he tells himself as he sits down to his microscope, John could have outright laughed at him or blocked him or whatever else the message application lets you do. Sherlock is hardly a person John Watson would be friends with, anyway, it's not like popular rugby captains have anything to do with scientists or detectives, and Sherlock is definitely not the type of person people like in general. But then, John had liked his deduction. He _did not mind_ his deduction.

Which doesn't exactly offer Sherlock an excuse to hate him and never talk to him again. Quite the opposite, actually.

"Sherlock? I know you're here!"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock grits his teeth and slides unto the floor, trying to hide under the kitchen's table. Not _her_! Not _now_!

"Are you hiding?" Irene steps into the kitchen, laughing. "You prick, that's how you treat your only friend, now?"

Clearly defeated, Sherlock crawls back from under the table and sits back on his stool, trying to concentrate on his experiment. "You're not my friend," he reminds her, "you're a parasite I'm unfortunately hosting."

Irene makes a pleased sound and kisses him on his cheek before he can retreat in safety. "That's right, you're stuck with me," she says, wiping off the lipstick that got stuck on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock grunts, and returns to his experiment. Right. He needs to analyze the composition and growth of two mold cultures on bread made with different yeast concentrations. He steals a look at Irene, from the corner of his eyes. Red dress (special occasion), broken nail (fight), sheer tights ripped on two different places (confirms fight), lack of coat (left in a hurry), faint smell of cologne (?) (man).

"Bradley again?" he says, pipetting an acidic solution so he can see how the culture reacts.

Irene opens the fridge and sighs, probably because of what Sherlock had just said and the fact that there isn't anything to eat. "Brad the Econ guy, Sherlock, can you believe it? And I thought that Kate had good taste."

Sherlock's face crumples with disgust. From the one time he had seen him on campus, Brad-the-Econ-guy seemed to a walking set of abs without a single trace brain activity. Definitely not for him, in any way.

After a moment, she decides to shower (Sherlock can't do anything against it, Irene practically lives at Baker Street when she decides to pop by), and leaves the door open so she can rant about how she knows that Kate and her were only dating, none of them had specified being exclusive, but still, she thought it was pretty clear and against the rules at this point (rules?!) and she keeps on talking and Sherlock keeps on not listening and that's mostly why they get along.

Finally, Irene steps out of the shower and comes back to the kitchen, draped in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns. She sits down at the table, and before Sherlock can do anything about it, she sees a new notification pop on his phone and seizes it.

"Oh my god, Sherlock Holmes! For how long have you been talking to John Watson? You should have told me!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, feigning nonchalance. He would only make the matter worse if he jumped on her to take his phone back. It's password protected, anyway.

"It's only been an hour or so," he says, trying to get back to experiment. He is dying to ask her what exactly John had written to him, but he has a cold facade to maintain, after all.

" _Don't worry, you didn't disturb me at all_ ," she reads to him, as if she had known what he had in mind, and tries trying to lower her voice to imitate a man, but it only makes her sound stupid. " _In fact it's been nice talking to you. Anytime._ And he apparently sent you a friend request," she adds, with a wink.

Sherlock grunts vaguely, transferring his attention to the second specimen is he working on. John is only trying to be nice to him. Pitying him, even. There is no need invest himself in this situation, as the results will be most likely null or negative.

"Are you going to answer his request, at least?"

"No."

"But you like him! You can't shut up about him. You've literally been to every single rugby match since the beginning of the fall— oi," she yelps when he opens his mouth to disagree, "don't pretend you didn't, you're not the only one who's been around the stadium! All I'm saying is that whoever gets Sherlock Holmes even mildly interested in team sports is either a criminal or a very lucky man."

"I'm not even going to answer that," he snorts. (Is she right?)

She sighs, still playing with his phone. "All right. I'm sleeping in your bed."

"I'm sleeping in my bed, and you're definitely not invited." Last time Irene had showed up, he was already sleeping, and she somehow crept in his bed unnoticed. Now that was a horrific sight, waking up to a _woman_  sleeping beside him. In _his_ bed.

"I'm taking your bed anyway, it's way more comfortable than the mattress upstairs. Unless…" Oh god, Sherlock knows where she's going with this. "Unless you accept John's request. Come on, I know you want to!"

Is she trying to bribe him? Sherlock knows that once Irene is set on something, it's more likely that she'll get it or annoy him to death. Plus, it would give him his bed back…

"Oh, a new message!" she says, concentrating on the lock screen of Sherlock's phone. " _Actually, I think I know who you are. Might be crushing on you, too. What would you say about a date?_ "

He lifts his head to look at her in total surprise, trying to prevent his cheeks from reddening. It takes Sherlock a second to register Irene's smug smile and deduce the rest. Of course she would! Of course she would invent that! "You liar!" he roars, standing up as he tries to reach for his phone.

"Yeah, that was pretty clever, and my point is proven. You're definitely smitten!"

Sherlock goes around the table, trying to reclaim his phone, but before he can reach her, Irene is already running to the sitting room. There's a storm of papers and books as they fight their way through the room before finishing nearly upside-down on the sofa, Sherlock's phone finally back in his hands but with an awful bruise to his knee, Irene choking with laughter beside him.

He checks his phone _just_ to make sure that John has not sent him any message of the kind. Of course he hasn't. He would never.

"Oh come on, just accept that request and I'll be off your back."

Sherlock glares at her, hair messy and experiment forgotten. Finally, he opens Facebook, accepts John's request to be his friend, as if that means anything, and stares at the screen for a minute.

Nothing happens. No bomb, no detonation, no one pointing arrows at him going _this man is totally gone on the rugby captain._ Nothing.

Sherlock sighs. Is that relief… or deception?

It's just a friend's request, he tells himself, no need to make a big deal out of it. He has got his bed back and Irene will stop nagging him. It's not like anything will happen at all.

 

He is, of course, so, _so_ wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a quick update on how this is going to go: basically I've figured out what I want to do. There will be multiple chapters, the point of view switching between John and Sherlock, and you can expect a lot of texting/social media and technology-related stuff (which there was not a lot in this chapter but you can expect more in the following ones haha). I have no idea how many chapters I am going to do, or how long this will be, but I'm trying to do quick updates with shorts chapters. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading this, your support is always appreciated (and in some cases, creates fics out of little silly ficlets like this one haha) <33


	4. 221 new messages

**Med Babes + Greg (221 new messages)**

_____________ 01:02 _______________

**Molls:** Can anyone help me with that chapter on gestational diabetes?

**Gavin:** Are you pregnant?

**Gavin:** Hey! Who changed my name again???

_Gavin set the nickname for Gavin to Greg_

_Bloody Mary set the nickname for Greg to Gavin_

**Gavin:** ……….

**Molls:** Very funny Greg, but no. Anyone?

**Bloody Mary:** Come on Molly, that chapter was sooo easy!

**Molls:** Talk for yourself, I hate endo.

**Three Continents Watson:** I think I know who Stitch-Guy is.

**Gavin:** Nooooo!

**Bloody Mary:** !!!!!!!

**Molls:** Omg!!!

**Three Continents Watson:** Jesus, calm down you guys.

**Gavin:** Well then, tell us!

**Three Continents Watson:** Do any of you know someone named Sherlock Holmes?

**Bloody Mary:** Nope.

**Molls:** No, sorry John. :(

**Gavin:** I do! Well, I don't know him, but my cousin does. She works at the Yard, and apparently he's called a few times to give them clues on the cases they've been working on. She said he's been brought in a few times as a suspect because of the thing he knows, but no, it seems he's just some kind of weird genius or something.

**Three Continents Watson:** Sure that's him?

**Gavin:** With a name like that, mate…

**Three-Continents Watson:** Yeah ok. He said he was some kind of detective.

**Molls:** Tell us everything!

**Three Continents Watson:** There's not much to tell.

**Bloody Mary:** Oh come on John! Don't go all shy on us!

_Bloody Mary named the conversation: Operation: Find Stitch-Guy_

**Three Continents Watson:** He came out of the blue. Liked one of my photos from like 2015 haha.

**Molls:** Oooh, the rugby one?

**Three Continents Watson:** Yeah? Why?

**Bloody Mary:** Classic!

**Three Continents Watson:** … anyway. We talked a bit, he knew a bunch of stuff about me, that was pretty impressive. And then out of the blue he's saying that he's sorry to have disturbed me and that he won't do it again? I said that it isn't any trouble but now he won't answer me. I don't know what to think about it, tbh.

**Gavin:** Three Continents Watson can't pull? :o That's a first! Call 999!

**Three Continents Watson:** Oi! Fuck off Greg!

**Molls:** Maybe he's just shy?

**Bloody Mary:** Or a pretentious arsehole!

**Three Continents Watson:** Right. This is clearly not helping.

**Molls:** Talking about helping, anyone for that diabetes chapter??

**Staaamfooord:** What have I missed? I'm not reading 103 messages about sclerosis again.

**Three Continents Watson:** You forgot your keys at home, Mike. Again.

**Staaamfooord:** Aw shite. I won't be back tonight anyway, sleeping at Stella's. Put them under the mat, will you?

**Gavin:** Safest. Plan. Ever.

**Bloody Mary:** Yeah, what's the worse that can happen? They're going to get two beers stolen?

**Molls:** Mike! John thinks he has found Stitch-guy!

**Staaamfooord:** WHAT???

**Bloody Mary:** If you'd actually READ like three messages before yours, you'd know… ;) brb

**Gavin:** Yep. Apparently he's some kind of genius named Sherlock Holmes.

**Staaamfooord:** Hey! I KNOW HIM!

**Three Continents Watson:** WHAT? Why didn't you tell me??

**Staaamfooord:** I didn't know it was him you kept talking about! I wasn't there at the Grand Cafeteria Event featuring Stitch-Guy. What happened?

**Molls:** From what I gather, Stitch-Guy liked some picture of John's from like 2015, so John started talking to him, and he's some kind of genius that correctly guesses things about you and helps Greg's cousin (who's in the police) solve cases. And now to prevent John from further torture I think he'd like to hear what you have to say about that Holmes bloke.

**Staaamfooord:** Oh, the rugby pic?

**Three Continents Watson:** What. The. Fuck.

**Staaamfooord:**  Don't underestimate that picture, John. Anywaaay, I had an organic chemistry class with him last year from when I was still in pharmacology. He's… something. He would know some crazy stuff about everybody just by looking at them. I mean, that was pretty cool but everyone got quite angry with him from the start. Barely showed up to the classes, if only to argue with the teacher. I swear he would never let anyone have the last word. Stella has a medicinal chemistry class with him this semester and she says he hasn't changed.

**Three Continents Watson:**  Can you confirm what he looks like?

**Staaamfooord:** Err… Tall, thin, curly hair, pale skin, blue eyes, I think?

**Gavin:** That's him, that's Stitch-Guy!

**Molls:** What are you going to do, John?

**Three Continents Watson:** I don't know… At what hour do they have that med chem class, Mike?

**Staaamfooord:** Wait a sec.

**Staaamfooord:** Stella says that they have their theory class on Thursdays 11-13h, labs are Monday 8h-10h.

**Three Continents Watson:** Thanks mate.

**Staaamfooord:** No prob. Going back to the gf now, bye!

**Bloody Mary:**  I'm back now, so, John, what are you going to do?

**Bloody Mary:** John?

 

John stares at his screen. He is unsure how to proceed. Mike said that Sherlock always has the last word, but it was not the case when he chatted with John. Is that good or bad? Bad, probably, since Sherlock will probably go on ignoring him forever now.

He sighs, and after getting ready for bed he lies on his back a moment, phone lighting up his face in the darkness of his room. When he sees the new notification, his heart jumps in his chest and he smiles to himself.

 

_Sherlock Holmes has confirmed your friend request._

 

Okay, now John has a plan.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, they totally needed the silly facebook nicknames. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules. 
> 
> Next: John makes his first move with his plan, Sherlock watches.


	5. The jogger and the scientist

Sherlock does not receive any new message for days. Irene finally leaves his flat after hearing Kate's apology, leaving Sherlock once more alone in the quietness of 221b Baker Street. At least now he has regained his bed that Irene did take, in the end, making him sleep on the old mattress upstairs that had been left by the flat's predecessors. Uncomfortable, but again, Sherlock has slept in worse places. He had wondered for a few moments if he should buy a bed for upstairs, but decided against it. It's not like he needs another room anyway.

Sherlock's phone stays silent for the rest of the week and the week-end. Good. John has visibly forgotten about him, and he needs to do the same, sooner better than later.

On Sunday night, Sherlock checks his website after updating his ash analysis up to 210 specimens. The private settings allow him to see that his website has gotten 103 views this week, which is more than average, he notes with a smirk. Obviously he knows that the information displayed on there is not for the average mind, and so his hopes are based more on the quality than the quantity of his readers. He still has gotten no comments, but Sherlock thinks that his new study on stitching techniques will appeal to a few professionals that will most certainly debate his results. Maybe even one or two of them will have an interesting case to suggest to him, and so he will start his career independently from the idiots at the Yard who do not bother answering his calls half of the time anymore.

A message from Irene comes through, and so he logs on Facebook but finally only ignores her poor attempt at bribing him to go out together. Instead, his eyes catch a post that has just appeared on his dash: it's one of those maps runners and bikers put up on Facebook to brag about the distance they have made that day, posting it only if they achieve under Olympian timing. The only thing that is interesting about this post in particular is that it has been written by John Watson.

_Guys! I've tested out our new jogging trail, I've added a 2km to our usual run— time to get back in shape!Starting tomorrow morning at 8am sharp!_

_Distance: 14.03km          Time: 72:04min Speed: 5.13min/km_

Between John's text and the statistics there is the map with the trail traced on it. Sherlock estimates that one loop corresponds to 4.5km, but his eye catches on the fact that they will be passing in front of the natural sciences building — in fact on the very side where Sherlock has his pharmacology labs on Monday morning. He frowns at his screen, this time trying to understand what is the meaning of John's babbling. The answers comes to him as a new comment pops up:

**Bill Murray:** _Mate, weren't you supposed to post this on our private group?_

**^John Watson:** _Oh shit, you're right! I don't know how this ended up here… Sorry!!_

As soon as Sherlock refreshes the page, the post is gone. John had probably mistakenly posted his new training for his rugby teammates on his own page instead than on their group. So what?

Sherlock wakes up on Monday morning with the awful feeling that he has not slept at all. Now sitting at his place at the lab, strangely on time for once, he wants nothing more than for that stupid teacher to stop talking and let them experiment already. Sherlock had convinced himself at two in the morning that he would not seek out the group of joggers, but by his calculations they were to pass in front of the windows for the first time at 8:15:46, give or take one minute and three seconds due to the degree of uncertainty left by John's measuring instrument (his phone) and the fact that Sherlock does not doubt that his teammates are slower than him.

Mr. Neumann stops talking at exactly 8:10:03, going over and over the explanations everyone certainly knows by heart by now, and so, at 8:14:02, Sherlock finds himself standing near the window just in front of the solvents he needs to gather before going back to his chemical hood. The whole thing should really take no more than a few seconds, but he lingers by the window, pretending to read over and over again some instructions. He is peculiar enough that his classmates really won't see anything different than his usual eccentric self.

Sherlock finally sees them in the distance.

A group of fourteen young students, jogging on the pavement, all wearing the same red and golden colors. Fourteen mostly good-looking and very in-shape men, sweating in tight shorts, lead by no one other than John Watson, ahead of the group by a few good meters.

Sherlock shakes his head, trying to concentrate on what he's actually doing, and realizes he has nearly poured some acid on a poor girl's (Stephanie? Sabrina?) lab coat.

"Watch it!" she says, frowning, before going back to her place.

He finally gathers what he needs, and with one last look from the corner of his eyes, Sherlock retreats back to his hood.

He goes to fetch more solvent at exactly 8:30:33 and at 8:46:47, but misses them by a few minutes the last time (they're getting slow, he concludes).

When the lab ends, Sherlock realizes that he has lost too much time wandering around the windows, and nearly didn't finish off his assignment, which he would have probably died of embarrassment if that were the case. He must stop getting so distracted. No, next week, if the rugby team is doing the same loop, he will definitely stay at his place and _concentrate_. 

When he finally gets back to Baker Street that evening, Sherlock checks his phone, seeing that he has received three new notifications: one from Irene (he ignores it), and two from John. He instantly opens his phone and gets on Messenger, only to see that a chess board has appeared in their message interface (how? why?). A white pawn has been moved, and it's visibly Sherlock's turn to retort. There's a message from John, too.

He closes his phone without answering. Should he? Should he not? The internal debate follows him until late at night, when he is lying in his bed, eyes wide open in the dark room, with the image of John Watson running imprinted in his mind.

John Watson's closed fists as he jogs. John Watson's golden hair under the pale morning sunlight. John Watson's complexion, nicely complemented by the red shade of his training clothes that are surely bringing out the color of his eyes (if _only_ Sherlock were closer earlier that day, he could have gotten a better view!). John Watson's neck and forehead covered with sweat. John Watson's muscular thighs rubbing against his shorts. John Watson's strong arms swinging by his sides.

John John John John John Watson. Mmh.

"Goddamnit," Sherlock swears under his breath, putting both of his hands on his face and trying to find a more comfortable sleeping position, that will hopefully make him fall blissfully asleep and unaware of the real world and of John Watson's one-hell-of-a-convienant-social-media-mistake.

The last thing he remembers before exhaustion overcomes him is the message that is left unanswered on his phone:

 

**John Watson:** _Your move :P_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you <33 
> 
> Next time: John's side of the same coin!


	6. The Game is On

**Operation: Find Stitch-Guy (12 new messages)**

________________20:16___________________

 **Bloody Mary:** Any news, John?

 **Molls:** Uh?

 **Bloody Mary:** Today was Phase One of the Operation.

 **Molls:** Can you talk like normal people do, Mary?

 **George:** Apparently our Johnny boy exerted his A+ seducing technique by dragging the team around the chemistry labs this morning. As you do.

 **Molls:** Why???

 **George:** The universal appeal of a group of sweaty blokes? Do I know???

 **George:** And WHO the fuck changed my name again?

 **George:** The joke is getting old, friends. Brb.

 **Molls:** Can't John simply talk to Stitch-Guy?

 **Bloody Mary:** Molly PLEASE, talking is so overrated as a flirting technique, now apparently dudes have to lure their victims in because THAT'S not creepy at all.

 **Molls:** How would you know…?

 **Bloody Mary:** It's not because that I'm a lesbian that I don't know what's wrong with men.

 **Bloody Mary:** Oh wait… maybe that's EXACTLY why I'm a lesbian.

 **Bloody Mary:** ;)

 **Molls:** Hihihi

 **Molls:** But it's not like all romance is dead! And not all guys! I mean, look at John, he was pretty sweet when you were dating.

 **Three Continents Watson:** Aaand I arrive just as we mention What-Must-Never-Be-Mentioned. Maybe I should just leave?

 **Bloody Mary:** I agree with John, BUT don't leave, I want to know the results of your very-advanced-borderlining-on-creepy-seducing-plan.

 **Three Continents Watson:** I'm still not sure. And it's not creepy. And I'm not luring in anyone. Jesus.

 **George:** No, just being genuinely weird about this.

 **Three Continents Watson:** I'm not!

 **Staaamfooord:** Hello fellow medical students and… George?

 **Three Continents Watson:** Mike!! Did Stella say anything?

 **Staaamfooord:** About?

 **Staaamfooord:** Ooh, that's right, the jogging thing. Err, wait a minute.

 **Staaamfooord:** Okay, Stella says that Sherlock was by the window three times during the lab, she was close the first one and says that he definitely saw you. And adds (I quote) "Are you sure John is really that interested? Holmes nearly burned me with acid when I came closer."

 **Three Continents Watson:** Good! I mean, not for Stella— sorry, but good!

 **George:** I don't follow you John. When are you going to talk to him like a real human being would?

 **Three Continents Watson:** For a man who just broke up for the third time with the same girl you sure seem to have a lot of dating advice, Greg. ;)

 **George:** Oi! Fuck off :P

 **Three Continents Watson:** Anyway, I think Molly was right.

 **Molls:** I'm glad. :) What about?

 **Three Continents Watson:** He's shy.

 **Staaamfooord:** Are we still talking about Sherlock Holmes? He never seemed shy to me, kind of over-confident actually.

 **Three Continents Watson:** That's kind of… the point, Mike.

 **Staaamfooord:** Oooh. You think?

 **Three Continents Watson:** Might as well try.

 **Staaamfooord:** Well good luck mate.

 

* * *

 

 

John does not get an answer from Sherlock until Wednesday evening, when he receives the notification that he has finally made a move on the virtual chessboard. He answers immediately, moving forward one of his knights as Sherlock seems to be still online. The message box nags John with its little "✓ Read: 23:04" that doesn't follow up with any other notification.

He waits again. Sherlock moves another pawn on Thursday afternoon. John replies in the evening, after class. For a while, it's just that, moving their pieces around the board, answering each other after a few hours.

The thing that truly baffles John is that he is actually winning the game. He prides himself at being quite good at chess, one of his weird secret talents being that he won a small chess championship at his primary school after his Mum had taught him one day during a snowstorm, just when his dad was sitting down in front of the TV after supper. John had won an entry to the regional competition, which he could not take place in because of the fee and the cost of the transport to its location, and he had not really played since, mostly out of frustration. He is terribly stubborn when he wants to.

But now, he's playing against Sherlock Holmes, a proper genius, and he is, by far, _winning_. John does not know how or why: Sherlock's moves are erratic, some of them are good decisions, some of them are terribly bad, as if he doesn't care at all about losing pieces and wants to get to John's king in any possible way. On Thursday night, John lets him come nearer than ever before, before doing the castling move and getting his king back to safety.

John sees the ellipsis appearing at the bottom of his screen, which means that Sherlock is typing. Actually writing down _words_. John's heart jumps in his chest.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** You can't possibly do that.

John frowns, before remembering Sherlock is talking about the game — most likely the castling move.

 **John Watson:** Actually I can. It's in the rules.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Then the rules are wrong!

John chuckles.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Anyway, I hate chess.

 **John Watson:** You only hate it because you're losing, genius. :P

There is no answer for a few minutes, the ellipsis coming and going, and John wonders wether he has gone too far. There's no proof that Sherlock is interested in him in any way, no proof that he's into men, into relationships, even— maybe he even does not bother with people and friends at all. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe John should stop going after him, when the flirting is clearly not reciprocated.

He ends up falling asleep on the sofa, phone still opened in front of him, the damned check mark indicating the exact hour and minute Sherlock stopped bothering to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, John and Mary dated. Yes, Mary in this fic is a lesbian. Yes, it will be explained to you. ;)
> 
> Next time: tiny chapter from Sherlock's POV!


	7. Help Me, Google

**Google Chrome Browser Search History (User: SH)**

Today, Thursday 20th______________________________

 

_flirting_

_how to deduce someone is flirting_

_how to deduce someone is flirting with you_

_how to deduce someone is interested_

_attraction_

_science behind attraction_

_attraction chemistry_

_attraction chemistry I am not asking about that kind of chemistry_

_attraction chemicals_

_attraction dopamine serotonin_

_dopamine to oxytocin_

_oxytocin hormonal role childbirth_

_oxytocin lack child early development_

_how to tell someone you're interested_

_how to imply you're gay_

_flirting_

_how to flirt back_

_flirting advice_

_flirting topics of discussion_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny tiny chapter I know, but I hope you liked it! 
> 
> Next time: Will there finally be some... interaction? ;)


	8. The limp and the thumb

John is trying his hardest to survive the most boring neuro class by playing on his phone which is hidden in his pencil case, indifferent to Mike's grunts and the few times his elbow stabs his side.

He's finally making good progress on the Candy Crush level he is trying to pass for days now when his phone pings with a new notification. Nearly jumping off his chair and erupting in coughs to cover the noise, John pretends to listen carefully to whatever Mrs. Francis is saying about myelin, blindly tapping on the screen to access Messenger.

John nearly falls off his chair a second time when he sees a photograph of what appears to be a severed thumb. Three other pictures follow, of three bodies in a morgue, taken in a way John can clearly see how their limbs were cut off. Finally, a picture of a bloody butcher knife.

John breathes in, closing his eyes, and tries to understand what game Sherlock Holmes is playing with him.

 **John Watson:** ???????

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I need your medical expertise.

 **John Watson:** I'm not a doctor.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Irrelevant. You're a med student.

 **John Watson:** Yeah… but still, no. I could get in trouble for giving you medical advice.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** A man's alibi depends on it.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Could be dangerous.

John looks over at Mike, who is struggling to get all the information down in his notebook. He's a good friend though, he will let John copy his notes if it's something that can't be found in the textbook, which always can be anyway. John will owe him one. Or is Mike owing him one after John cleaned up the mess left in their flat last weekend? Whatever. Someone owes somebody. He sighs, and returns to his phone.

 **John Watson:** All right. How can I help?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I need a medical professional to confirm that the thumb was cut with the same knife that the limbs were.

John squints at the pictures on his phone. From the view he has got, it seems that it could be the case, going by how the skin tissue was ripped, and the thumb looked fairly… well… fresh, just like the rest of the body.

 **John Watson:** Could you take better pictures? Maybe a bit closer?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** That's all I've got.

 **John Watson:** … you're not actually there, aren't you? How did you get these? Hacked into the Met's database or something like that?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Something like that.

 **John Watson:** Jesus Christ.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** We have to work with that for the moment. Your conclusion?

John shifts on his chair. He could get in serious trouble for giving medical advice since he is still only a student, even though, in his opinion, he is quite good at it. He hesitates for another moment, probably just for the sake of it. If a man's liberty depends on it…

 **John Watson:** Going from how the skin tissue was damaged, it looks like it was the same object that cut the limbs and the thumb, yes. And it looks like they were cut pretty much at the same time or so, so yeah, it's probably the victim's?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Good. My thoughts exactly but for the last part.

 **John Watson:** How so? And how does that help you?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** The killer used the same knife to butcher all of his victims by cutting off their limbs. It appears from the report that all limbs were found but none of them was missing a thumb, which was also found at the last crime scene. There are three different hypothesis at this point, one involving the murderer having killed another person and somehow disposed of the thumb one victim later, which does not work out since no body killed in that way was reported in the span it would have taken the thumb to rot, the second one being that he killed another person later and returned to his previous crime scene to dispose of the thumb, which seems to be the Yard's preferred version of events even if it is the most ludicrous leap in logic I have ever heard in my life. You just confirmed the fact that the thumb was cut with the help of the same weapon that was used on the victim, and that it appears to have happened during the same span of time (I would need more precise medical data but we can clearly see that the thumb is not rotten and still in fairly good condition, just like the body), therefore the last hypothesis (and so, the correct one) is that the thumb is the killer's.

John stares at his screen a few seconds, rereading the message a few times to completely understand it. He can see that Sherlock is not wrong, but he knows that he himself would have never been able to make that sort of conclusion from a few scraps of (stolen) information.

 **John Watson:** Wow! Brilliant! But how does that help us find the killer?

What were they going to do now? Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and for a moment he doesn't even register that the teacher is visibly staring at him, waiting for him to put down his phone.

"If Mr…"

"—Watson."

"If Mr. Watson has nothing better to do than to stare at his phone, I suggest that he does it out of the class."

John sighs at the use of the third person. "Sorry miss, I just got an important email from my… doctor."

"From your doctor?" Mrs. Francis says, eyebrows disappearing under her ridiculous fringe.

Jesus Christ, she is not going to let him get away with it. "Yes, it's about err— my limp."

"Your _limp_. If I recall correctly, you weren't limping when you got up to your current seat, Mr. Watson."

Every single student is listening with attention, and that Mike is trying not to laugh beside him.

"It— err— it comes and goes. From the rugby. It's psychosomatic. That's why— the email. Sorry."

Now John is fairly certain that Mrs. Francis's eyebrows have taken off her face and disappeared into outer space. He is a crap liar, after all.

"Since it seems that Mr. Watson, at least, listens to his medical psychology class, I'm going to drop the subject. But please drop the phone too."

Grumbling another faint excuse coupled with a few silent curses, John puts his phone back in his pocket. He feels it vibrate against his leg a few more times during the two remaining hours of the class, cursing himself for not being more subtle about it and being now in the impossibility to answer to Sherlock's brilliant deductions. His leg is nearly itching with temptation in answer to his phone, which stops receiving messages after a while. He might as well get a psychosomatic limp from it, after all.

It's just past five when Mrs. Francis finally stops rambling about the potassium changes occurring in neuronal electric transmissions, so John can leave the class in a hurry and look at the messages he's received, a few of them from Sherlock, and a few more from Greg complaining on the silent group chat about his homework load.

 **___________** 15:02 **_____________**

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Well first thing first, we must stop an innocent man from being incarcerated from something he did not do, since Angelo has still both of his thumbs and I am sure that he was actually in another part of a city highjacking a car when the murder occurred.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** About finding the killer, that's the easy part. It's visible from the thumb that we're looking for an engineer who has some kind of experience working as a butcher. Not many people answer to these criteria and miss a thumb on their left hand. I'm fairly certain where to start looking, and once I gather enough evidence, the Yard will be obligated to analyze the thumb's DNA and match it to the actual murderer's.

 **___________** 15:34 **_____________**

 **Sherlock Holmes:** John?

And then, no new notifications since that but for Greg's lonely ramblings. Had he screwed up? Surely Sherlock would not mind him answering a bit late, he was in class after all, but John can't help but notice the _we_ sprinkled around Sherlock's messages. He types a quick reply:

 **___________** 17:04 **_____________**

 **John Watson:** Sorry, teacher caught me on my phone.

 **John Watson:** Can I be of any help?

There is no reply, no ellipsis, not even a nagging ✓ _Read_ in the corner of the screen. Sherlock must be out, or busy. Most likely solving an exciting case without John's help. He already hates it, being left behind, as if there is something to leave behind in the first place. No, he has to proceed cautiously about the whole thing. He is still unsure whether or not Sherlock is interested, but he seems keen to make his observations to John, which, going by John's friends, is not something he does easily. Maybe they can be friends. Just friends. He can probably work with that, can't he?

Sherlock's reply arrives after John's study session at the library and his rugby practice, the last one before tomorrow's match.

 **___________** 00:26 **_____________**

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Solved it.

 **John Watson:** Tell me!

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I called the Yard and explained it all and they finally put me in contact with that woman that I talk to sometimes and who is above the average Yarder's IQ of -10. She accepted to run the tests, caught the murderer who's Michael Gilford, an engineer who proceeded to eliminate a few of his colleagues for having proven that his most recent study does not hold up. You should see it in the papers tomorrow.

 **John Watson:** Holy shit. Sorry I missed the fun.

 **John Watson:** I mean, not that I assume I was invited or anything.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Their primary suspect was cleared (although I am quite sure he will serve some time for highjacking that car). He was so delighted he offered me free food at his Italian restaurant, anytime I want. I should do a study on how euphoria leads to bad decision making.

 **John Watson:** Wow, that's nice though! Must be pretty convenient for first dates haha.

It takes a few more seconds for Sherlock to answer. 

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Probably.

John face-palms himself, or more accurately slams his head on the textbook he is currently trying to decipher. Can't he get _any_ information out of Sherlock Holmes?

 **John Watson:** Anyway. Congratulations for solving this!

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Thank you. Although you weren't bad too, providing helpful information.

 **John Watson:** No worries. :P

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Thank you.

 **John Watson:** Hey listen, the rugby mates and I are going out tomorrow night, whether we win or not. Would you like to come?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I can't. I have a thing.

 **John Watson:** All right. Will I see you at the game, at least?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I doubt you will know who to look for.

That's right. Sherlock still believes that John has no idea who he is behind a name on a screen. Oh, how wrong is he, John tells himself with a smile.

 **John Watson:** But I'd know you'd be there. :-)

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Maybe. I'll see.

 **John Watson:** Great! Goodnight, then!

There is no reply, but after all it's not like Sherlock to linger on finished conversations.

John definitely lingers on theirs, hours after he goes to bed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was basically a "spot the references" game. :P Also I know I keep changing the texting format but at the end of the fic I'll make it uniform hahaha, sorry! Basically the hour appears just to show if there has been a delay between messages (just like on Facebook) instead of putting the hour beside each message. Anyway, you probably know that already, so I'll just stop talking haha.


	9. The Big Bang and the Epiphany

"Sorry, is this seat taken?"

Sherlock raises his head at the man who just spoke to him. "No."

"Do you mind if I sit down, then?" Sherlock shakes his head, his attention returning once more to the group of athletes who shares one last briefing before the game. The spectators are slowly getting to their places on the stand, sipping beer, eating hotdogs and chatting away with their friends. One by one, the stadium lights light up, and soon, both teams are ready to start the game.

Number 9 salutes the other captain.

Sherlock is sitting on the upper left corner of the stands, like always, high enough so he can't be seen (although, as he has said before, he knows John would not know who to look for), and close enough to the stairs so he can go away as soon as the game is done. There is no reason to linger, after all. 

Number 9 is talking to the referee.

He thinks about what happened the day before.

John had seemed keen on giving him medical advice, and it had helped him prove a point to the Yard, even though he referred to John as a professional and not merely a student. Not that he cared about the difference, he knows that John is competent enough, but Sherlock wanted to have all the chances on his side. For a moment he had thought that John had regretted helping him, but the lack of messages was only due to the fact that he had been in class. Nothing to worry about. There was nothing _worth_ worrying about, he tells himself. John had even invited him to the game, not knowing that Sherlock already goes secretly to each one of them, but it was clear that he wanted to meet him.

Which would be a bad mistake.

A really bad mistake.

Number 9 runs back to his team. Their is a whistling sound, and the game begins.

"Do you know any of the guys on the team?" the man beside him asks. Sherlock sighs. Will he really have to make conversation with the stranger during the whole game? He turns his head, having a better look at his interlocutor. Second year law school, was on the rugby team last year but resigned because of homework load and parental pressure to get better grades, craves any type of physical activity, is bored by books and school, dresses neatly, is fairly good looking although there are signs he will gray prematurely, not Sherlock's type, also very straight, has just broken up for the third time with the same girlfriend. Interestingly readable. Normal people would say he looks like a _nice_ person.

"Not really. But you know them all," Sherlock whispers, still looking at him.

The man laughs quietly. "I do. Oh, wait— are you Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up. Time to leave. "Don't pretend you didn't know that when you sat down beside me."

"No, no, sorry, you're right— just stay!" Sherlock hesitates a moment, but finally decides to sit down again. He won't let the game be spoiled by a stranger.

Number 9 is currently tackling Number 3 of the other team. 

"It's just that my cousin talked about you."

Sherlock tries not to rip off the man's head. "Your cousin?"

Number 9 is lost somewhere under a storm of human bodies. 

"Yeah, err— Georgina Lestrade? At the Yard?" Nope. Doesn't ring a bell. Come on, Number 9. "Tall? Brunette? Curly hair? Bit of a raspy voice?"

Ah, the woman who always smokes while on the phone. "I've worked with her a few times, yes." She is one of the few Yarders who bothers listening to him, which makes her incidentally the DI with the most solved cases ratio of her team.

Suddenly, everybody around them stand up and start cheering: from what Sherlock gathers, after nearly falling off his seat, is that their team has scored. The man beside him cheers just like everybody else, before sitting down again. Sherlock curses himself: he is supposed to watch the game after all, not to chat with some random stranger at the first occasion. If he goes on, he might miss other interesting actions that happen on the field.

Number 9 is running back to his teammates, high-fiving a few of them, smile wide on his face. 

"Listen," the bloke says, eyes on the field, "I don't want to bother you, but my cousin said you've solved the famous Moriarty case when you were like what… thirteen?"

Sherlock smiles, still looking on the group of players who are running back towards the other team. "Ten," he corrects him.

"Wow. She wouldn't tell me much about it— you know, classified information, but—"

"Carl Powers was poisoned through his shoelaces, dying in the pool shortly afterwards, and the killer disposed of the shoes. That's what caught my eye at first, because the police could not find them, and he had to come at the pool wearing shoes, obviously. So I contacted the police, and after a while they decided to listen to me. They tracked Moriarty down at Carl Powers' school, apparently Powers was frequently bullying him, and so Moriarty made him pay. They found where he had hidden the shoes, he was convicted of murder and is still serving his time."

They spend the rest of the game trying to watch it and discussing murders and criminals at the same time, which apparently the bloke has an extensive knowledge of, and Sherlock sees how resembling he is to his cousin in the matter that he fully concentrates on what Sherlock is saying, and is not afraid to ask questions to better understand Sherlock's deduction skills.

The game is progressing well, even if their team is not the best on the circuit, they are definitely winning this one, and Sherlock barely takes his eyes off Number 9, but still tries not to be too obvious to the man beside him, who's name he still doesn't know.

The crowd erupts in cheers one last time when the time is up, signaling the end of the game. "Listen, the guys are going to the Lion's Mane tonight, do you want to join in?"

Number 9 is currently being hauled upon the biggest's guys shoulders, all of them cheering and celebrating together. 

Number 9 looks for a single second towards the stands, and Sherlock instinctively tries to make himself as small as possible, which is stupid because of course John doesn't know who to look for, and he wouldn't be looking for _him_ in the first place.

"I'm afraid I have things to do." Why is everyone so adamant for him to meet the rugby team? It's not as if he has anything in common with them. And Sherlock doesn't _do_ parties. Parties are dull. Awfully so.

"All right, well, the invitation stands if ever you change your mind."

Sherlock nods, tying his scarf around his neck. He needs to go now. He is just two steps down the stairs when he turns around, facing the man once again. "By the way, if you're ever thinking about changing careers, and you are, since law school bores you out of your mind, I think you'd be not so bad at police work."

The man smiles. "Well then, maybe we'll have the chance to work together one day. Greg Lestrade, by the way," he says, extending his hand.

Sherlock hesitates, but shakes it, and one second after that, he is already gone, Number 9 somewhere far away behind his back.

 

He spends the rest of the evening chatting with Mrs. Hudson, who feeds him an impossible amount of lasagna and cookies, before retreating to 221b's kitchen, also known as his personal lab. Just as he sets the timer to watch over the chemical solution he is working on, he checks his phone: no new messages. He opens Messenger, taps on John Watson's name, who is already first on the list, and types a quick message:

 **___________** 01:03 **_____________**

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Congratulations.

It takes a few minutes for John to answer, but when he does, Sherlock's heart jumps in his chest. Is he still at the party? Probably, at this hour.

 **John Watson:** Thanks!! So you did come to th game? :P

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I deduced it from the traffic coming out of the campus.

 **John Watson:** Nope you didn't! Can see when youre fibbing, you know?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I did see the game, yes. Congratulations. You'll forgive me for the lack of "emoji" to express my joy.

 **John Watson:** Riiiight. :P Why didnt you come to the party then?

In answer to that, Sherlock takes a picture of his current experiment and the timer set beside it. He could probably deduce at lot about himself from it, but he doubts John will be able to do the same. He sends the picture.

 **John Watson:** Oooh, I seeeee. Very serious about schoolwork, are ya?

Before he can answer, John sends him a picture of a weird-looking cocktail on a wooden table.

 **John Watson:** The other kind of chemstry on a saturday night.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** It does look… quite lethal.

 **John Watson:** yeah, not the best I've had

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Is it traditional to get drunk on unknown substances every Saturday?

 **John Watson:**  naaah, I'm not drunk! Abit sloshed, nothing so bad.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Your typing mistakes have increased by 125%.

What he receives next is a moving image of what seems to be a universe exploding. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is John exploding? Did he experience some sort of epiphany? Is he questioning Sherlock about the beginning of the universe? Is it code for something?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** The big bang is indeed the prevailing cosmological model of the universe known at its earliest time based on hypothesis that the universe is expanding.

 **John Watson:** Genius. Csmsological model is a bit unfair towards pluto though. i like it. But nope, It's only a gif. 

Gif? What kind of internet language is that? Or is John referring to the moving image? 

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I hardly see why you'd have such a privileged relationship with the roman god of the Underworld, John.

 **John Watson:** u kidding?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Hardly.

 **John Watson:** pluto sherlock, the planet!!!

 **Sherlock Holmes:** There are many planets, John.

 **John Watson:** actually is t a planet still? man, i don't even know anymore

 **John Watson:** waaaait, are u saying u don't know th planets?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** And why are you discussing the solar system with a stranger when you're supposed to be partying with your team?

 **John Watson:** nope I left. partys dull, and ur hardly a stranger nw

 **John Watson:** WAIT ur deflecting th issue here how come geniuses dont know about the solar system

Another pictures finds its way in the conversation, and even though it's entirely black it seems as it still manages to be blurred.

 **John Watson:** See?? :P

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Actually no, I don't.

 **John Watson:** thats the sky. forgot my point though

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Just… try not getting lost on your way back.

 **John Watson:** thats the OTHER interesting fact about stars sherlock one can never really get lost

Sherlock chuckles at the screen, and when the timer beeps he sets his experiment on the side to pick it up again tomorrow. Right now there is nothing better to do than to get to bed and read a few scientific articles on acetaminophen synthesis.

Once in his bedroom, he keeps exchanging messages with John, who apparently made it safely back to his flat and to his bed. Texting a quite drunk John is finally not as bad as it seems, even though his eyes are slightly burning because of the appalling spelling mistakes one makes under the influence of alcohol. Sherlock wonders what would have happened if he had gone to the party, just like John — and that man Lestrade — had asked him to. Probably nothing good would have come out of it, but for a moment he imagines himself actively going out with John Watson.

As in _dating_ John Watson. Number 9 and Captain of the rugby team. 

No, John had not meant it in that way. It is customary for young men to invite other people to parties, merely as an act of kindness more than anything else. Sherlock doesn't want John to be kind to him, Sherlock wants John to _want_ him. He obviously does not. It's not as if kindness is unbearable, he consoles himself, he can work with that.

It's frighteningly easy to write to John, and soon his watch indicates that it is well past two in the morning. Sherlock can see that John is struggling to stay awake, but does not want to pry and ask him to go to sleep: he is not his mother after all. So they keep on talking about the solar system, Sherlock's lack of political knowledge ( _but its th prime minister,, sherlock!_ ) in politics, literature, and so on and so forth, before John asks him about sports.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I did fencing back at school, with a bit of horseback riding. Boxing too.

 **John Watson:** ver posh all that. boxing?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** I'm quick.

For a mere second, Sherlock marvels at the fact that they are both lying in their respective beds, doing nothing else than texting to each other. It's like there is no distance at all between them: John could as well be lying on Sherlock's bed right now, drunk and happy and tired and babbling away about rugby and whatnot. Just as the thought makes its way to his brain, he does not chases it right away — it can stay, just lingering there a moment longer — and he sees the ellipsis prove that John is currently typing to him, what sees to be like a long message.

A very long message.

Sherlock knows that his stomach should be clenching, that he should be nervous and asking himself if he did do something wrong, but all he can do is lie on his side on the bed, staring at the phone, as if intoxicated by a relaxing substance that is definitely not alcohol.

Finally, the message appears to the screen:

 **John Watson:** i dont doubtthaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooi

Sherlock huffs a silent laugh, and stares at the message some more. It's definitely a nice feeling, knowing that the last thing John Watson did before inevitably falling asleep on his phone was to think of him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the time it took to update, but I this chapter was a big longer, and I've been a little busy. Hope you like it!
> 
> Next time we're getting into some interesting stuff :P


	10. Just a bit hungover

11:02

Water.

Paracetamol.

Dear God is Mike loud this morning.

 

Bit hungover.

Just a bit.

A tiny, tiny, tiny bit.

 

The phone pings.

Sherlock?

Nope.

Oh.

Deception.

 

"Well look at who left us on their own yesterday night!"

"Shut up Mike."

 

Coffeeeeeee.

Phone again.

It's George.

 

Who the fuck is George?

 

 

 

**Operation: Find Stitch-Guy (14 new messages)**

________________11:08___________________

 **George:** Well consider Stitch-Guy found.

 **Bloody Mary:** Whaaaaat?

_George named the conversation: Operation: Get John Watson Laid So He Can Stop Being Boring At Parties_

**Molls:** Ooh, I regret I couldn't be there!! How is he, Greg? Did something happen?

 **George:** I only saw him at the game. I sat down beside him and we talked.

 **Three Continents Watson:** You did WHAT?

_Three Continents Watson named the conversation: Operation: Get Greg a Hobby So He Can Stop Prying My Personal Life_

**George:** "I sat down beside him and we talked."

 **Three Continents Watson:** Why the bloody hell you would do that!!

 **George:** You're not the only one who has the right to interact with him, you know? And some of us chose the preferred method of actually talking to people when wanting to know more about them. ;)

 **Three Continents Watson:** I talk to him.

 **George:** You text him, that's different. And that's why you're being boring at parties. Next time I'm just going to take your phone away.

 **Three Continents Watson:** You wouldn't.

 **George:** Hell yes I would. You'd have noticed that Violet Hunter was dying for you to buy her a drink.

 **Three Continents Watson:** Yeah well Violet Hunter-and-her-Jaguar can manage to buy a drink herself if she wants one.

 **George:** But. It's. Violet. Hunter. John.

 **Three Continents Watson:** I don't care if she's prime minister or Miss Universe, Greg, but if you like her, why don't YOU buy her a drink?

 **George:** People, people! Our boy's gone. Officially gone past the line of sanity which dictates that any person even slightly interested in women would want to know more about Violet Hunter. ;)

 **Three Continents Watson:** She's only interested because I made it captain.

 **George:** Yes…….. And what's your point???

 **Molls:** I have to agree with John here, I don't know what you see in her. She's sooo mean.

 **Bloody Mary:** Oh, darling, no one is denying that she's the worst bitch, but what wouldn't I give for her to play on my team. Pun intended, sorry Joh. ;)

 **Bloody Mary:** Mike, what do you think?

 **Three Continents Watson:** He's saying that he has No Opinion on the Matter.

 **Bloody Mary:** Good boy, Stella taught him well. ;)

 **Molls:** But Greg! We want to know! About Stitch-Guy. Is he nice?

 **George:** Right. I wouldn't say he's nice, but, err… interesting? I sat down beside him and he said some stuff about me that's right, I really don't know how he does it but it was quite impressive. We mostly talked about the cases he's worked on with my cousin at the Yard, he relaxed a bit more after I told him about her, and he talked so fast I had a bit of trouble following him.

 **George:** I invited him to the party afterwards. Somebody HAD to.

 **Three Continents Watson:** I already did!!

 **George:** Oh, I didn't think you had it in you. ;P Well, as you know, he refused. Though just before leaving he said that I should try to get in the police, that I would be better at it than law. He might be right.

 **Molls:** Ooooh! That's a good idea! You've always been complaining about school. I'd definitely see you in the police!

 **George:** Thanks Molls :)

 **George:** I'll think about it. My folks would kill me though.

 **Bloody Mary:** Anyway, that's all very nice, but I'd like to know who's up for tomorrow's study group, and what chapter do you want to go through.

 **Molls:** I still need help with the last endo class.

 

John puts his phone down. So, Greg talked to Sherlock, and managed not to scare him off. That's good. Wait. Is it? Does Sherlock think that John is spying on him or something like that? Does he even know that Greg's one of his best friends? The last thing he needs is to come off as some sort of creep.

Gulping what remains of his coffee, he checks his phone again, seeing that Greg has messaged him privately.

 

 **Greg:** Didn't want to say that on the group chat, but he really couldn't take his eyes off you.

 **John:** Really?

 **Greg:** 100% sure, mate. I don't want to pry but you know… you should really do something about it.

 **John:** Yeah, I will. I just… wasn't sure if he is really interested.

 **Greg:** He liked a picture from three years ago. John. Wake up. Of course he is.

 **John:** Then he's not really showing it. Maybe he's interested without really wanting to.

 **Greg:** I don't know him as well as you do, but I've literally never seen him with anyone. No friends, no boyfriends, girlfriends, whatever. If he's not showing it maybe he just doesn't know how. Or if you're interested in him as well.

 **John:** Yeah, I've thought about it.

 

He definitely has. It's strange that after a single week of texting he feels as if he knows Sherlock Holmes better than anyone else and yet not at all. And then, there's the other side of the same coin, or the ten-thousand pounds question: how to make Sherlock know that John is desperately bi? It's not as if he can simply pop in the conversation and announce it casually. He needs to imply it, in some way or another, to make Sherlock understand that hell, he's willing and it's been only a week but he has not fallen for someone so quickly and God wouldn't they be amazing together?

And he though _women_ were complicated.

John sighs, typing a quick reply to Greg:

 

 **John:** … Everything would be so easier if being straight wasn't seen as the default.

 **Greg:** Sorry mate, it sucks.

 **Greg:** Good luck though.

 **John:** Thanks.

 

He wants to add something about thanking Greg for talking to Sherlock in the first place: he doubts that he has many friends, and Greg is a good and nice guy, probably the one from his group of friends John would want Sherlock to meet first anyway. Right now, he needs to think of something to say, on how to imply his orientation, and more importantly, his interest in Sherlock. He thought that it is fairly obvious from their previous conversations, but maybe not so much for Sherlock. Maybe he isn't aware that John is being flirty, more so than two male friends would be towards each other, just like Greg said, he probably isn't aware of the clear lines and rules in each type of relationship. Perhaps he doesn't know how to reciprocate. Or he doesn't want to. But John needs — _wants_ — to be sure. If Sherlock truly doesn't want any of that, John will stop bothering him. But he needs to know.

Night falls and after having studied for the endocrinology exam next week, John still doesn't know what to do about Sherlock. Its been nagging him in the back of his mind all day but without procuring him a clear answer.

Just as he takes his phone in hand in the hope that seeing the texts they have been exchanging for the past week will somehow provide him a solution out of the blue, he rereads what they have said last night. It's the longest that they have talked, and despite being properly sloshed John is relieved that he has not said anything that he would have regretted in the morning. No, instead he had fallen asleep texting Sherlock Holmes, his face writing an implied goodnight message on the screen for him, and sending it long after he was asleep.

He sees the ellipsis which means Sherlock is there two, on the other side, typing something. He subconsciously smiles at his phone, happy to know that even if they had not talked all day, Sherlock is thinking about him.

Happy, until he sees the message.

 

 **Sherlock Holmes:** So, John, do you happen to know any pretty ladies? ;)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're ending on a bit of a cliffhanger here! Answers to come in the next chapter ;)


	11. Siri has not said her last word

"Irene Adler what on Earth are you doing with my phone right now?!"

Sherlock stands up from his armchair, where he was just about to solve a cold case from the 80's by doing a mind experiment in the Palace. He extends his hand, showing that he wants his phone back right now, but Irene keeps on tapping at the screen. Texting? Impossible, it's password protected and surely she could not have guessed the series of numbers Sherlock randomly deci—

"Just chatting."

"With whom?" He tries to sound detached, but Irene's smug grin following her statement only confirms the worst. "What did you do?! Give me my phone back!"

Sherlock runs towards the sofa, trying to reach for his phone which she holds away from him. "The thing is— you should always— stop it!— use gloves with those things— cracking your password— took me less than a minute— dear—"

"Irene! There are enough poisonous substance in my kitchen to kill you, and I should remind you that I know how to hide a body in a way that they would _never_ find you!"

Half on top of her, Sherlock finally snatches his phone back and retreats quickly to the other end of the room, straightening the hem of his shirt with one hand while going through Messenger with the other to see what damage has been done.

 

 **Sherlock Holmes:** So, John, do you happen to know any pretty ladies? ;)

 

Oh no. Everything but not  _this_. This is against what he has been working for a week! He needs to write back something quickly, or to delete or edit the message (is that possible?). He thinks about asking Irene, but right now it is the last thing he wants to do. No, he'll figure it out on his own. Before he can do anything, the phone silently vibrates in his hand, and Sherlock instantly reads John's answer.

 

 **John Watson:** Err… a few, why?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Disregard the last message. Someone took my phone.

 **John Watson:** Trying to set you up, are they? :P

 

Sherlock groans. "This is atrocious," he whispers under his breath, which only makes Irene giggle harder. She's right behind him, trying to follow what happens on the screen. "Fabulous. Now he thinks I'm interested in _women_."

"Make it clear you aren't, then, and let him find me a girl who has more brains than Kate. Shouldn't be hard."

He rolls his eyes: Irene obviously believes that this is a win-win type of situation, which could not be further from the truth. Not listening to her, he turns away to hide the screen from her and thinks how to phrase his next message. Surely John does not need to know the specifics. It would only put them both in the embarrassing situation in which Sherlock's ~~pining~~ casual interest is revealed. He had already made a mistake by liking John's picture from a _decade_ ago, he cannot afford another one.

 

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Dear god no. I believe she is trying to set herself up.

 **John Watson:** Oh, okay.

 **John Watson:** OH

 **John Watson:** Well actually I do know a few people that might be interested, yes.

 

This time, Sherlock surrenders his phone to Irene, mumbling a "fine," and sitting down on the sofa, tucking his knees under his chin. If he can concentrate enough he might be able to go back to his Mind Palace, but the more he tries to the more he is aware of Irene trying to find a suitable angle for a selfie she then sends to John. As long as he is not in the picture.

"There," she says, giving Sherlock back his phone. "You see, it really isn't that hard getting yourself out there."

"Charming. Do you expect him to put up your picture on every street corner solely to find you a girlfriend?"

Irene elbows him in the sides, and reaches with her hand for the phone tucked in Sherlock's pocket. "Right, I'm creating you a dating profile right now!"

"You wouldn't!" No: he must stop being so overactive, show her that he doesn't care, or it only encourages her.

"Oh yes I would. Unless…"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. She holds his phone in her hand, and he thinks that he could easily take it away from her from the hundredth time, but doesn't: he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care.

"Unless you finally make a move on John Watson!"

He stands ups abruptly. "Enough!"

" _Siri is calling John Watson on Messenger._ "

Silence falls in the room.

Both stare at the screen.

Irene: happily surprised.

Sherlock: horrified.

"Give me this!" He grabs the phone, trying to find the goddamn button that will make this hell stop—

" _Hello?_ "

John's voice.

John Watson.

On his phone.

Talking to him.

 

Sherlock is brought back to reality when Irene says something he doesn't quite catch. "Go away!" he hisses at her, putting the phone against his ear as he walks down the hallway towards his bedroom. He slams the door shut. Irene better not follow him, he needs to undo this utter mess.

"John?"

" _Sherlock? Is that you?_ "

John Watson.

On his phone.

Saying his name.

Like— with his _voice_.

"Who else would it be?"

Is he too harsh?

" _You're right, sorry. Didn't expect you to call._ "

"It was a mistake—"

" _No I mean it's fine by me it's just that—_ "

"I mean the phone called by itself—"

" _Right._ "

"Siri. Irene said your name. Siri called you."

He distinctively hears John giggle on the other side. " _So you were talking about me, then?_ "

Sherlock makes a positive humming sound. "Irene has high hopes that you can… set her up, apparently."

" _I actually might. We'll see. I didn't know you have a flatmate._ "

"She's not my flatmate. She usurps my flat whenever she chooses, usually when there's trouble with Kate. Not that it will be a problem anymore, for obvious reasons. I dare to hope that I will get my bed back."

" _She sleeps in your bed?_ " John's tone seems surprised and slightly amused.

"Ghastly, I know. I've slept a few times with her but now I'm mostly relocated to the mattress upstairs."

There's a silence.

Shit.

"I— we— haven't slept together, that's not what I mean— I mean we've shared the bed, not _sleeping together_ in that way as— actually _sleeping_ together or—"

John is chuckling at the end of the line. Oh god, Sherlock is making things worse, but he still can use the situation at his advantage, now that they are on the subject. He gets on his bed, lying on his stomach, legs bent at the knees and tangled, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the duvet. He can do this. He can totally do this.

"' _S fine, I know what you mean._ "

"You're still hungover."

Why exactly is his mouth making sounds and forming sentences his brain did not approve of in the first place?!

" _I am. A bit. How can you tell?_ "

"Your speech is slightly slurred, you need to concentrate on what I'm saying, indicating that you probably have a headache, and since I know that you were drinking last night the conclusion is inevitable."

" _Well, not my fault you're speaking so bloody fast._ "

Sherlock pinches his lips together, and John's instinctive reply makes him wonder if he is in the room, somehow looking at him right now. " _No— I'm just teasing. You're right._ "

"I always am."

His answer prompts John to laugh some more, which makes him smile in return. Isn't that laugh amazing? Sherlock takes the mental note to add it to his Mind Palace to go back to it later.

This time, it's John who ends the silence first. " _You missed quite the party, yesterday._ "

"I thought the party was _dull_ ," Sherlock replies with the words John used on the previous night. Nobody would spend the night texting someone during an amazing party.

It's John turns to hum vaguely. " _Will you come next time?_ "

"Maybe." Sherlock knows the short silence preceding his answer implies that no, he won't.

Fortunately enough, John seems to have the presence of mind to drop the subject altogether. " _Did you see the meme I tagged you in today?_ "

The what of the what? "Err—"

"Just go on Facebook."

He does as he is told, opening Facebook while keeping the call in another window, and looks at the newest notification that he did not see appearing a few hours ago: it's a picture of the periodical table, with a new element _AH_ , which is labeled by whoever drew it as _the element of surprise_. Sherlock frowns.

"I'm looking at it," he says to the phone.

Going by his answer, John obviously expected another reaction. " _And? Do you get it?_ "

"There's not such element as AH, John."

" _I know, it's a pun. It's supposed to be the element of surprise._ Ah!"

"Oh."

" _Well now that I've explained it it sounds lame. Sorry._ "

Sherlock wants to say something about how John doesn't need to bother himself and tag him in random and boring Internet jokes, but the fact that John has seen this on his news feed and has thought of Sherlock is by itself a miracle worth enduring the  _puns_.

"No, by all means, tag me in all the mems you want to."

" _Memes._ "

"Yes, that."

" _What's your friend's name?_ "

"My what now?"

" _Your friend. The one who's looking for a date. The one you're not sleeping with_ ," John adds teasingly.

"She's hardly a friend. Her full name is Irene Germaine Adler, but never say I was the one to tell you or she might kill us both."

" _Noted. I'm giving her name to one of my friends, I have the impression that they will hit it off together. Or it will keep her off your back for a while at least._ "

"Thank you. A few days of peacefulness would be quite appreciated."

" _Listen—_ "

"You have to go."

" _Yeah I've got to start early tomorrow, Monday— training with the rugby blokes and all that._ "

"I kn— I should probably go too. Class starts early for me too."

There is palpable warmth in John's tone. " _See you around, maybe?_ "

"Goodnight, John."

" _'Night, Sherlock._ "

There's a lingering moment where neither of them hangs up, but after a few seconds of breathing in the speaker, Sherlock realizes that he is becoming utterly ridiculous, and presses on the screen to end the call. Right. He just spent half an hour chatting _voice to voice_ with John Watson, the day after they spent texting each other all night.

Sherlock stops himself from attaching too much significance to it, and instead stands up, ruffles his hair and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on. From what he gathers, Irene has retreated to the room upstairs, probably texting the woman John put her in contact with. Maybe he'll get to keep his bed tonight.

Just as the water boils, Sherlock remembers that he has forgotten to tell John about the cold case he is currently working on, something he is sure that will interest him. Next time, then, he thinks, echoing John's own words when talking about meeting at the party.

Sipping his tea, Sherlock sits down in his armchairs and thinks about the uncomfortable fact that John still wants them to meet in person. It would be totally disastrous. Nobody likes him — that's why Irene's intention of setting him a dating profile was utterly ludicrous — no one in their right mind would want to know him better, to talk with him, to be with him. And he surely doesn't want to be with them either. He is perfectly fine on his own.

Yet as the minutes ticks by on the clock on the mantlepiece, Sherlock thinks over and over again about the group of students that will be running tomorrow morning in front of the chemistry labs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See?! It wasn't *that* bad!


	12. Queer folks + Greg + Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've been waiting for this moment.

John is trying to lean casually against a wall near the cafeteria, going through last night's messages, as if he doesn't feel that he is currently making life-changing decisions.

 

**Operation: Get Greg a Hobby So He Can Stop Prying My Personal Life (302 new messages)**

________________20:16___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** So I basically told him to piss off.

 **George:** Hahaha suck it Phillip!

 **Bloody Mary:** He's so fucking dumb.

 **Three Continents Watson:** Anyone interested in a… very eager lesbian?

 **Three Continents Watson:** [picture attached]

 **Three Continents Watson:** Ladies? @Molls @Bloody Mary @George

 **George:** Ha. Ha. Very funny. But also: HOT DAMN!

 **Three Continents Watson:** I know…

 **George:** Sure she's lesbian?

 **Bloody Mary:** Oi, you keep your hands off her, weak man!

 **George:** All right, all right. So, on which app are you meeting beautiful lesbians, John? Going on a trend after Mary, I see?

 **Three Continents Watson:** Sod off. She's a friend of Sherlock's.

 **Staaamfooord:** So THAT's who you're talking too!

 **Three Continents Watson:** Sending you her name on pm, Mary.

 **George:** Wait wait, let Molly have her say on the matter too!

 **George:** And also, CONGRATS John, when will the wedding take place?

 **Three Continents Watson:** Oh my god. We're just talking. Like people do, you know?

 **George:** I know. I thought YOU had forgotten.

 **Staaamfooord:** Obviously not, he's babbling like a teenage girl.

 **Three Continents Watson:** Will you all SHUT UP!

 **Staaamfooord:** Ooh, slamming doors now, are we.

_George set the nickname for Three Continents Watson to Grumpy Bi_

_George named the conversation: Useless gays + Greg_

**Staaamfooord:** HEY!

_George named the conversation: Useless queers + Greg_

**George:** Sorry Mike!

 **Staaamfooord:** Better.

 **Molls:** What did I miss?

 **Staaamfoooord:** Greg is having fun, John is talking to Stitch-Guy now, Mary has disappeared since John set her up with Stitch-Guy's friend who is very hot and everybody wants to know your opinion about her.

 **Molls:** Oh. She's… pretty, I guess?

 **George:** Pretty? Pretty??? Do you even have eyes, Molly?

_Molls named the conversation: Useless queers + Greg + Molly_

**George:** What?!

 **Molls:** What??

 **George:** Aren't you gay?!

 **Molls:** What??????

 **George:** Oh come on I saw you snogging Mary at the pub last semester!

 **Molls:** That's because Anderson wouldn't stop hitting on her!

 **George:** You don't have to lie, Molly.

 **Molls:** I am not!

 **George:** Is that so? :P

_George set the nickname for Molls to Molly the cockblocker_

**Molly the cockblocker:** Stop it Greg!!! What if my parents see this!!!

 **George:** Oh come on! We're just having a little fun.

_Molly the cockblocker set the nickname for Molly the cockblocker to Molls_

**George:** But seriously, I had no idea! How come you've never dated during the whole time I've known you?

 **Molls:** I… did. A bit. But I prefer to focus on my studies.

 **George:** Oh wait! Our Johnny boy is back!

 **Grumpy Bi:** What the hell do you want.

 **George:** Remember what I told you?

 **Molls:** What?

 **Grumpy Bi:** Yeah yeah, I know. Look, the team and I are jogging tomorrow morning in front of the labs. If he's at the window, I'll got talk to him at lunch.

 **Molls:** Ooooh I won't be there but good luck with that John xxx

 **George:** "If he's at the window" hahaha

 **George:** "Holmes, Holmes, do you see anything coming?"

 **George:** "I see nothing but a cloud of dust in the sun, and the uni's worst jocks running my way!"

 **Staaamfooord:** Hahahaha

 **Staaamfooord:** Beer, John?

 **Grumpy Bi:** Yeah, coming.

 

Sherlock had been at the window. The one time John risked a look, he vaguely recognized the silhouette of a tall man wearing a lab coat on the building's second floor, and that alone had fueled his muscles and propelled him a another dozen of meters in front of the group, subconsciously trying to run fast enough to squeeze in another loop. If only his team wasn't mostly composed lazy arseholes. Seeing Sherlock there, behind that window, had prompted John to make his decision on the spot: he would go to him as soon as possible, as on Monday's Sherlock usually sits at the cafeteria during lunch time, probably waiting for his friend Irene or something like that.

Now that he is just a corner away, John's resolution is slowly dying out.

"Hey! Been looking for you, mate!" John hears Greg running towards him and a moment later, Greg is slapping his back as a friendly greeting. "Have you seen Mary by the way? 'Was supposed to give her book back."

John shakes his head: and he had received a single text as a thank you form her earlier that morning. "I think she's with Irene."

"That girl from yesterday? Already?! Damn, she's bloody fast in business. Not like some people," Greg teases and winks, but John isn't in the mood. Instead, he braces himself for what's about to happen. "Are you sure you're all right, mate? Big day, is it?"

Now Greg looks properly concerned. John swallows, leaning his head back against the wall, but manages a tight smile. "Don't make it sound like it's my bloody wedding."

"You're positively looking more nervous than a virginal bride, John. You've talked to him already. Hell, you dated hundreds of people. You've got this."

"Right. _Hundreds_ of people. Of course," John says, his voice full of sarcasm and rolling his eyes. 

He has dated a few people, mostly women, but all the experience in the world would not reassure him at all. Without knowing exactly why, he feels like this is entirely different.

With a sigh, John heads down the hallway, Greg on his trail. Better get this done and be over with.

The cafeteria opens up in front of him, full of life, of people chatting around and eating and laughing and reading and studying and stitching up a hole in their trousers—

Oh God. He can't fuck this up.

"Stitch-Guy, four o'clock," Greg whispers with a grin.

"I know, I know!"

"Smooth and cool, you can do this!"

John feels a steady push in his back, and starts walking towards Stitch-G— Sherlock, swinging his bag on one shoulder. Sherlock. Sherlock. He's there, sitting in a corner all by himself, probably in the best spot to look at people and deduce them without being noticed, but fully concentrating on a hole in the fabric of his trousers, just above his knee, which he is stitching up with not-so-great technique. Probably learned it by himself. Even from here, John can distinguish the small wrinkle between Sherlock's eyebrows. His eyebrows. His eyes. His cheeks — God, he can see them from miles away. His lips. His curls. His skin. His arms. His legs. His fingers working on those stitches.

Wrinkle eyebrows cheeks lips curls skin arms legs fingers.

Wrinkleeyebrowscheekslipscurlsskinarmslegsfingerswrinkeeyebrowscheekslipscurlsskinarmslegsfingers—

He is close now. Wait. What the hell is he supposed to say? Fuck. He's got nothing prepared. Sherlock doesn't even know John knows who he is. Maybe he shouldn't approach him in that way. What if he is about to make an arsehole of himself? ( _Okay, smooth and cool, you can do this, Watson! Smooth. And. Cool._ )

John puts one of his hands on the back of the chair and leans in, over Sherlock's shoulder. "Do you need any help with that?" he asks, strangely calm, pointing at the disorganized stitches in Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock jumps.

Everything goes blank for a second.

The pain feels like someone ripped off his face.

" _Fuck!_ " he curses, putting a hand over his nose trying to stop the bleeding.

Sherlock is standing in front of him, visibly scared and horrified at the same time. A few heads turn around to look at them, but Sherlock has already got his bag in hand and is fleeing down the nearest corridor, past Greg, before John can explain himself. _I scared him off_ , he thinks, _I fucking fucked it up fuckity fuck_ — He had not meant to frighten Sherlock, and certainly not to make him jump hard enough for him to receive the back of his head on his nose. If John wants to melt through the floor and disappear, he can't even begin to understand how Sherlock is feeling right now. _Damnitbloodyhellfuckingfuck_. The conversations slowly begin again all around him, the people visibly not bothered enough by the blood spilling on his tee-shirt. They have seen crazier stuff happen in the cafeteria.

Over all of them, he hears the noise of Greg's slow-clapping behind him.

"Real smooth, John, _real_ smooth."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that I had Juno's soundtrack in my head the whole time I wrote this. I haven't seen the movie since my early teenagers years but the soundtrack stuck with me for some reason. It's mostly awful singing but it's cute enough and fits these ficlets!


	13. John Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small delay (the updates might take some more time right now, loads of schoolwork!), but the chapter is also longer so... :P
> 
> Warning: the chapter mentions a rape drug being used on someone (no assault happens).

 

John knows.

John knows who he is.

John knows that Sherlock is— well, him.

But how? _How_?!

Or maybe he doesn't know, and the person he approached at the cafeteria just now was a total stranger he just wanted to say hello. Do people do that?

No.

When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

John _knows_.

Sherlock stomps the seventeen steps to 221b before slamming the door behind him. He thought he was safe. He thought John would never guess, never come to knowhis identity. Furthermore, John should not have surprised him in that way, implying that he needs help with his stitches. As if he does! They're perfectly _fine_! Surely the aesthetic aspect of sewing skin is not the most important one? As long as it holds and stops the bleeding. But that's not the point— no, the point is that John Watson knows who he is now, and any prospect at friendship — at _anything_ — is doomed. Not that he had a chance in the first place, but still.

He dumps his bag on the sofa and nearly rips off his blood-stained shirt from his chest — it cannot be saved, he has dozens of them anyway. After changing himself, he considers what exactly he should do now that he's back home. He considers the violin for a moment. No. He does not need to think, he needs _not_ to think.

His phone pings. It really hasn't stop since he has left the cafeteria. Sherlock takes his phone out and quickly scans the messages appearing on his lock screen:

[13:03] **John Watson:** Sherlock!! Come back!

[13:06] **John Watson:** Sorry!!

[13:45] **Irene Adler:** Oh my god she's amazing.

[13:46] **John Watson:** Seriously, I'm so sorry!

[16:24] **Victor Trevor:** Sherls?

[17:01] **John Watson:** Sherlock?

[17:05] **John Watson:** I know you probably don't want to talk to me right now but I just want to say that I shouldn't have crept up like that.

[17:06] **John Watson:** So sorry. Again.

Whatever. He doesn't need them. He doesn't need any of them.

He needs something stronger than the violin. Something much stronger, an effective way to release the anger that has built up in him. He changes quickly again, and a moment later, heads out once more.

 

When he comes back to the flat, hours later, he's sweaty and bleak and exhausted, but at least everything seems clearer in his head. In retrospect, John knowing who he is is not bad as it seems: it certainly saves him the trouble of explaining it himself. It also means that John most likely knows about his reputation, and chose to pursue friendship anyway. Above all, it would be false to say that Sherlock had not thought about John finding out who he is and being perfectly fine with it, but he had dismayed it as a single moment of total lunacy (as if they were starring in a romantic comedy!). Now the thought imposes itself more than ever, and he is secretly pleased.

Just as he steps on the landing, Mrs. Hudson greets him from her kitchen.

"Yoo-hoo, Sherlock! You have a visitor upstairs!"

Nothing Sherlock had not deduced by the faint tracks of mud going up the stairs. He straightens his back as his heart jumps in his chest, his pulse going wild, puts his collar up and swings his bag on one shoulder. It's the best he can do, really, hoping that he won't look too bad even with his hair messed up and his grey sweatpants. He climbs the stairs two by two, drops his bag on the landing and opens the door as casually as he can.

"Hi Jo—"

That is not John.

_That_ is a tall young man (22 years-old), blond (natural), from King's (tag on his bag), med student (currently going through one the latest _Science_ magazine about tumor-obliterating injection in mice), and very very much a military man going by the obvious fact that he is wearing fatigues.

Sherlock's eyebrows fly up.

Blink blink blink blink blink.

Is he dreaming? Or hallucinating? There is a military man standing in the middle of his flat. Here. At _221b_.

The man turns his head. "Oh hello! Sorry for going through your stuff," he says, pointing at the magazine.

"No problem," Sherlock manages. Should he offer tea or something?

"D'you know much about oncology?" He seems genuinely friendly and interested.

Sherlock's brain tries to find its switch. "More than regular people but probably less than medically trained professionals such as yourself."

The man gapes a bit, then smiles again. Sherlock rubs the back of his neck, and picks up the bloody shirt that has been laying on the floor all evening. "I wasn't expecting anyone," he says, folding the shirt and putting it away on the kitchen table, near the microscope. Other people's blood isn't something he comes by often, even if it's all dried-up, and Sherlock can't miss the opportunity to analyze it extensively later on, when he will know what his visitor wants, even though he has a bit of an idea by now.

"What do you need?" he says before he can think of something more polite. "You're here for my help. I haven't got all evening."

"Yes, sorry again." Again with that smile. Jesus. "I do need your help."

"Then sit down and tell me. Don't be boring."

The man does as he is told, sitting down on the wooden chair — pretty much the only surface that isn't covered with papers and books and trash — while Sherlock walks in front of the mantlepiece, pretending to organize some letters and bills he's received as if it is the most interesting thing in the world.

"As you already know, I've been studying med at King's and I'm finishing my training in the army. I've been on leave for the past two months and I'm going back in a few days. When I came home this spring, I started going out to celebrate with friends from uni, as usual, but I've noticed that… well… I think someone is following me. At first I thought it wasn't anything serious you know, the crowds are pretty much the same ones at the pubs we go out to, and it happens that you know… someone is interested and following you around a bit waiting to approach you."

There's a slight pause in the man's story, and Sherlock nods and makes a vague hand-gesture, as if he had lived the same situation a hundred times. Obviously not.

"So yeah, there's this guy, I've seen him around in one place, but then I would see him in another pub on another night, and so on for a few weeks. And he'd never, you know, make a move or something like that. Just following me around. Giving me the creeps, if you want to know."

"What happened the last time you went out?"

"Sorry, what?"

"You wouldn't be here if there wasn't any new development," Sherlock says, sitting down in his armchair, staring at the empty red one in front of him.

"Yeah, you're right. Well, last night, I was at one of these pubs on my own, and then I saw him again. Black jumper, black pants, a bit formal for the place, you know. But the weird thing was that he was taking a picture of me. In my general direction anyway, but it felt as if he was taking a picture of me. I would have changed pubs but I was talking to someone, and, you know, we were kind of hitting it off. But at some point I started to feel dizzy, a bit sick, and— they asked me if I was alright and everything but I definitely wasn't feeling good, so they walked me out of the pub and got me into a cab. I dozed off once I arrived to my flat, and waking up I realized that I had been drugged."

Sherlock frowns. "Why didn't you go to the police?"

"I'd— I'd rather not. You see— I'm leaving in three days, I don't think I'm in danger anymore or anything like that and, well… I don't specially want to go public with where I was and who I was with, you know. I've seen your name in the papers a few times and I've found your website, I thought that you might be… sympathetic to the cause. I'd hate to see it happen to anyone else, some blokes won't be as lucky as me."

Probably not, but Sherlock doesn't say anything. The excitement is building up in him: his first private case! Someone found the website! Someone is asking him for help! To investigate! _Finally_!

"I'll need a list of the pubs you've been and seen your stalker," he says, and instantly notices the man's uneasiness. "I obviously won't let it lie around," he adds quickly with a bit of sarcasm. "There is a high probability  that I will have to go to the police at some point in the process, but if I do I will make sure not to mention your name."

"Okay. Thank you. I'll send you the list by message, if that's okay."

 

A few minutes later Sherlock is once more alone in the flat. Once he'll receive the list of pubs he will start investigating, but right now there is not much he can do, and so he sits behind his microscope, cutting in the fabric of the blood-stained shirt. His mobile beeps again and he picks it up, this time more inclined to see what's going on.

**Words With Friends:** John Watson is waiting for you to make a move.

What the _hell_? Who is that "Words With Friends" and how they know about him and John?

Sherlock nervously taps on John's name, seeing that there are a bunch of new messages, the last one being:

**John Watson:** _(Words With Friends) John just played SORRY for 8 points._

**Sherlock Holmes:** What is this?

**John Watson:** You said you hated chess. :P

Sherlock clicks on the Words With Friends link, and a Scrabble board appears on the screen. But… why?

**Sherlock Holmes:** _(Words With Friends) Sherlock just played SERENDIPITY for 17 points._

**John Watson:** … of course.

Sherlock can see the ellipsis coming back, meaning that John is typing something again. He knows without a doubt what's coming.

**John Watson:** Listen, I'm sorry about earlier.

**Sherlock Holmes:** It's fine.

**John Watson:** I shouldn't have surprised you like that.

**Sherlock Holmes:** You shouldn't have.

**Sherlock Holmes:** Is your nose all right?

**John Watson:** Yeah yeah, I'm fine. Not broken, it just bled quite a bit.

**John Watson:** You're not angry.

**Sherlock Holmes:** Excellent deduction, John.

**John Watson:** But you wouldn't answer my messages earlier.

**Sherlock Holmes:** I was busy.

**John Watson:** For four hours?

**John Watson:** _(Words With Friends) John just played ERRAND for 7 points._

**Sherlock Holmes:** Yes.

**John Watson:** Sorry. Forget I asked.

Is he really going to tell him? Sherlock sighs. Maybe he owes him that much.

**Sherlock Holmes:** I was dancing.

**John Watson:** You dance?

**Sherlock Holmes:** Occasionally. Helps with pet-up energy. I do ballet.

**John Watson:** That's amazing!

**John Watson:** You never told me that!

**Sherlock Holmes:** We've known each other for a week, John.

**John Watson:** True. Feels longer, though.

**Sherlock Holmes:** Indeed.

**Sherlock Holmes:** _(Words With Friends) Sherlock just played OXYMORON for 20 points._

**John Watson:** Listen, I totally understand if you don't want to, but I was wondering if you'd like to meet up some time? Hopefully in a setting that doesn't involve one of us bleeding to death.

Sherlock stares at the screen. How can John possibly think that them meeting is a good thing? How can he _want_ that, even, according to how terribly wrong everything went today? But again, it cannot get worse than what happened, so maybe he should accept the invitation?

**Sherlock Holmes:** Maybe.

**Sherlock Holmes:** It depends.

**Sherlock Holmes:** But yes. Sometime.

**John Watson:** Great! See you around, then? :-)

Sherlock puts his phone down, returning to his microscope, a bit dizzy with everything that happened today. Right. He will need to hit the stores first thing in the morning, plan his next lab with Mrs. Evans, and being to work on the case. Just as he thinks of it, Sherlock's phone lights up with a new notification:

_James Sholto send a message invitation._

He accepts it at once and returns to the blood sample, the mental image of John wearing army gear imposing itself in his mind.

Nggggh.

Damn. Now he needs a shower.

 

 

 

**John Watson:** Thanks for the new shirt! You really didn't have to.

**Sherlock Holmes:** I did. It'll suit you better than that tee-shirt anyway.

**John Watson:**  ...hahaha well thanks :P

**John Watson:** Remember what we talked about on Monday?

**Sherlock Holmes:** We said many things.

**John Watson:** I meant the "us meeting" part.

**Sherlock Holmes:** I recall.

**John Watson:** Are you busy on Thursday evening?

**Sherlock Holmes:** Nope.

**John Watson:** 8p.m. in front of classroom 3480 in the med building. All right?

**Sherlock Holmes:** What for?

**John Watson:** It's a surprise!

**Sherlock Holmes:** If you recall correctly, I am not one for surprises.

**John Watson:** Oh come on! I swear there are not going to be any nose bleeds haha.

**Sherlock Holmes:** Fine.

**John Watson:** Great! See you then!

**John Watson:** Oh, and bring your lab coat, would you?

 


	14. The Average Male University Student

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of a corpse used in a anatomy lab!
> 
> Also, this is a long one, but I think you've been waiting for that moment! :P

"Hey! Sherlock! Over here!"

It's already ten minutes past eight, and for a good moment John thought that Sherlock would not show up. He should have been aware that he is the type to make a fashionably-late entrance. John can barely hide his excitement, remembering that this is the first time they actually meet face-to-face when both parties are aware and consenting to it. Sherlock comes closer and stands in front of him, seemingly cold and detached, running his eyes over John, probably deducing tons of details about him. It feels strangely weird to be observed in that way, and John doesn't know if he likes it or not.

"I was right," Sherlock says, pointing at the dark-blue shirt John is wearing under his lab coat, "it does suit you better."

"Oh, that, er— thank you again," John replies with a smile. He had debated wearing the shirt tonight — the one Sherlock offered him — for an hour back at his flat, before Mike threatened to burn all of his other clothes if he wouldn't decide by himself.

"Where are we going?"

"Haven't you deduced it yet?"

"A lab, that much is obvious," Sherlock says, as he starts following John down the hallway. "Although all laboratories are closed at this hour."

John stops in front of the door that shows the number 3894, and retrieves a set of keys from his pocket. "Molly is lab assistant here, and she owes me a bit of a favor. There are a few of these," he adds, showing the keys, "and are worth millions by the time exams are close. Teachers turn a blind eye to it, except—"

"That I'm not a med student."

John smiles. "Exactly. You don't mind, don't you?" He doesn't take Sherlock as the type of person who particularly minds breaking the rules.

"Not at all."

Nodding, John pushes the door open and enters the lab he knows well by now for the impossible number of hours he spend there in his first year. Grabbing a pair of safety goggles, he sees that Sherlock has just registered the particular smell that is coming from the metallic deep tables, excitement growing in his eyes.

"Formol," he whispers, coming near one of the tables.

John smiles back and runs his hand on the cold metal. "Have you seen a corpse before?"

Sherlock nods, putting a pair of goggles over his eyes. John doesn't know how how kind of sacrifice he made to the Gods to look good even wearing these.

"Have you seen and worked on a dissected corpse before?" John specifies.

This time, Sherlock shakes his head, and John flips the table's two metal flaps outwards, revealing the corpse bathing in a formol solution. It's already been pre-dissected by the fifth-year pathology residents, taking off all the skin and cutting into the muscles to easily access important organs and deeper layers of muscles. John turns the handle to higher the corpse, leaving the formol at the bottom of the table. He grabs two pairs of gloves and throws one at Sherlock.

"All yours. Just don't throw up on the corpse," he says jokingly, and Sherlock stares back at him _as if_ he could ever be so sensitive, which only makes John giggle some more. "If you have any questions I'll be over there."

He has some things to prepare himself, and so John leaves Sherlock alone, going to the counter and opening a few cupboards. They work separately in silence for a few more minutes, occasionally disturbed by Sherlock's own mumbling to himself.

"John?"

"Hmm, yeah?"

"I can't find the lateral antebrachial cutaneous nerve."

John steps up beside him, taking a pair of tweezers and starts separating some veins, arteries and nerves in the corpse's arm. "Shit, you're right. Some of these have been a bit messed with by the first years. So, err—" he takes Sherlock's left arm in his hands, tugging the sleeve up to his elbow. "The LACN comes from the C5-C6, passes behind the cephalic vein — right there — it divides opposite of your elbow joint — just here — into a volar and dorsal branch, and the volar one continues down your arm to the ball of your thumb," he finishes, holding Sherlock's wrist and pointing at the exact place where the nerve ends.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock says, sounding a bit out of breath, and John tries not to smile, pleased with himself, knowing perfectly well that the LACN is perfectly fine and visible on the other arm of the corpse. But he had to prove his point, at last.

Sherlock seems about to say something else, when a text alert goes off. Not John's phone, he's certain of it. "Ah, that's for me. Might be important. Do you mind?" Sherlock says, showing both of his gloved hands bright with what John scientifically calls _corpse juice_. "Coat pocket," he specifies, and John rolls his eyes, pretending to be slightly annoyed and amused by the simple request. Is that Sherlock's preferred method of _flirting_?

John retrieves the phone, clearing his throat, as Sherlock leans back over the table, this time checking a pulmonary artery. "Uh, your friend Irene says _I've got a crapload of things to tell you and you won't answer any of my texts so you better bring your arse over at my place tonight or you WILL regret it, Holmes._ " John chuckles but Sherlock sighs. Irene seems to be a demanding friend, and he doubts Sherlock would be willing to listen to a woman's rambles about her latest conquest. "Oh wait, you've got another one. 'Says _Bar Soho, Circa, Fire, Heaven_. And a bunch of dates." Something catches John's eyes. "Wait, you know James Sholto?!"

_That's_ a coincidence. Why exactly is James texting a bunch of gay bars to Sherlock? Unless…

"I do," Sherlock answers, still concentrated at examining the liver. "Where do you know him from?"

John turns his back on him and puts the phone down on the counter, staring at it with the particular desire to crash it on the ground. "We went to the same secondary school." Sherlock hums, half-listening. Right. Now or never. "He's my ex."

There is a loud clang which makes John turn his head, registering that Sherlock had dropped a pair of tweezers and is now scrambling under the table to retrieve them. Once he is on his feet again, he concentrates once more on the corpse, turning his back to John. "Oh?" he says, with casual interest.

"Well, kind of. We dated a few years back, when we were in school together — when I say dating, t'was more like snogging in corners where they wouldn't find us."

"How did it end?" Sherlock asks, in a tone John would qualify as being faked interest.

Nonetheless, he answers the question. "He graduated two years before me and we lost contact. I think it was a bit complicated to deal with at the time, neither of us were out. It was nice but as the kind of thing that has to be short lived, you know?"

This time, Sherlock doesn't answer, and so John returns to what he was preparing before. They spend a few more minutes in silence before Sherlock speaks again. "So you dated him."

"Yes."

"And you also dated Irene's gir— Mary."

John smiles, seeing the point Sherlock wants to make. "Yes."

"Okay."

He can nearly see the wheels turning in Sherlock's brain, processing the information. One day he'll have to tell him about how exactly they "dated", but surely he has already given him enough information about himself for one evening. Not that he has a chance with him anyway, now that James' in the picture. John was so sure that he had a chance in all of this. Alas…

"So, how is he, James?" he asks, trying to show interest in return.

"Err— well, I guess?"

"How long have you two been dating?"

"What?!" Sherlock turns to face him, properly surprised, and John frowns. Has he gone too far? Maybe Sherlock isn't the type of person who shares about his private li— "I— we're— we'renotdating."

"Sorry, I didn't catch that?"

"We're not— dating." It's John's turn to be surprised. What the hell is going on? "Why would you think so?"

John rubs the back of his neck, hesitating. "Well, he's just sent you a list of gay pubs. That definitely sounds as if you were planning a date or something."

Sherlock looks up, realization creeping up on his face, his lips forming a perfect O. "I— is that what people do? No. I'm helping him on a case."

Never before John has been so happy to hear about someone's troubles, maybe apart from that time Anderson had stuck his mouth in a cup trying to prove one could get stuck only from suction and had to be replaced for a match they won. John wants to laugh now that the situation seems perfectly silly. It seems as if a cloud has lifted from his brain, as if impossible weight has been taken off his shoulders — something in the back of his mind reminds him of stress relief and endorphins, but he nonetheless realizes how the view outside is pretty now that it's dark and the street lights are up, and how this evening is just _perfect_.

"Ah, I understand. Sorry, for implying it, then."

They look at each other for a few seconds, and in common unspoken accord, they both erupt in laughter at the same time, for no particular reason. By the time he has regained sufficient control on himself, John is holding his sides, eyes wet with tears, and Sherlock seems to be in a similar state.

John tries to breathe in and out. "Look, I've prepared something for you."

Sherlock sniffs and chuckles some more, coming at the counter. He stares for a moment about the skin-colored pad, the needles and suture thread.

"Is it really that bad?" he asks, lips in a tight line.

John looks at him for a second, wondering if he should tell the truth. From what he knows about Sherlock, he sure hates dishonesty. "Yes. They're horrible."

He smiles at him, trying to show that he's teasing, and worries for a moment that he has gone too far. But he can see the corner of Sherlock's lips shaking a bit, and another fit of laughter seizes them both.

When they have calmed down again, John takes the needles and hands it over. "Technically it's not that bad, you could stop someone from bleeding to death, which is the important part, of course, but there would be a higher risk for infection and more scarring."

Sherlock hums, and they get to work, John showing him how to correctly suture the skin-replica pad. After a few tries, Sherlock gets better and better, and John doesn't need to intervene and point out his mistakes so much. Sherlock is definitely a quick learner, and has an eye for detail (no surprise there, really). His long fingers are precise, working in smooth motions with the needle, and John cannot help but stare at them.

John notices they're been leaning closer and closer over the pad, shoulders brushing for a moment now, without it being uncomfortable.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You never told me what case you were working on when you liked that picture."

Sherlock raises his head, and John wonders if he will finally tell the truth. "I wasn't exactly working on a case."

"Oh?"

"I was— conducting a study, you see."

John cannot help but smile. He has the feeling that Sherlock will never tell him exactly why he has been stalking his Facebook profile, but he plays along nonetheless. "A study?"

"Yes. For a case, actually. A study of the mind of the average male university student. I've been watching a few subjects over different social media platforms to draw theories about how their interactions on the numerical environment explains different aspects of their psychology."

John giggles heartily: Sherlock sounds just like a mad scientist doing some experiment on unworthy microbes. "Have you come to any conclusions, then?"

Sherlock stares back at him and goes still for a moment, as if deciding what he is going to say next, obviously showing the fact that he is making things up as he goes. "Unfortunately not. You do not quite register as average, John."

God. He could kiss him right now, but Sherlock lowers his head again, trying to concentrate back on the stitches and probably trying to hide the fact that he is slightly blushing. John doesn't know what to answer to that, and before he can think of something, Sherlock puts the needle down and exclaims: "Done!"

The sutures are nearly perfect, and although he is satisfied with his teaching method, John cannot help but think that Sherlock making a bad job of the sutures would have meant seeing him again in the same context to help him improve.

The clock indicates that it's nearly ten (they've been here for two hours?!), and John remembers that he has that endo exam in the morning. Shit. At this point, studying is meaningless, and he has already done his best with his study group this week. He'll revise a few things once he gets home, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have time to ask Sherlock if they want to grab a coffee or something.

Except that everything near the campus would be closed at this hour.

Maybe a pub? No. Sherlock has explicitly told him that he did not enjoy partying, and John cannot have a hangover in the morning. And inviting Sherlock back to his place would probably be a step too far. He doesn't need to rush this.

They quickly sort everything back to place and lower the corpse back in the bottom of the table before closing the lids, grabbing their bags and heading for the door.

"John? I appreciated your help tonight, although I am not entirely sure I got everything perfectly."

John gapes a bit, shocked that Sherlock would show even a bit of humility in the hope of having a second evening at the lab together.

"Bit of a perfectionist, are we?"

"Indeed. I was wondering if you'd be amenable to—"

"Same day, same time next week?" (He really needs to convince Molly to give him the keys for a second time...)

"Yes."

"Good. Will you be at the match on Saturday?"

"Yes."

"All right then. See you around!"

On that, John swings his lab coat on one of his shoulders and walks down the hallway, Sherlock going in the opposite direction. He smiles. He's got this.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said slow burn... I wasn't kidding. We're still not out of the woods but we're getting closer! :P The next two chapters will be short and posted together, hopefully very soon (trying to do it for tomorrow, we'll see!)


	15. They Say the Internet Was Created for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I already told you that this fic is total crack? Here we go. :P

 

**Google Chrome Browser Search History (User: SH)**

 

Today, Thursday 27th___________________________

_(…)_

_porn_

_gay porn_

_gay porn blond_

_types of lubricant_

_oil-based lubricant reaction to latex_

_oil-based lubricant chemical reaction to latex_

_latex dispersion polymerization_

_latex allergy_

_latex allergy death rates_

_murder by latex allergy_

_latex allergy testing methods_

_relation between latex allergies and food allergies_

_gay porn_

_____________________________________________

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who want to know, there was a man in 2006 who murdered his wife by putting a latex glove in her mouth knowing that she was allergic to it. The things you find on internet for fic purposes...


	16. They Say the Internet Was Created for... (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to have read chapter 15 before this one since the two were posted together. :)

 

**Firefox Browser Search History (User: John)**

 

Today, Thursday 27th________________________

 

_Browser history has been successfully deleted._

 

______________________________________________

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just leave it there. ;)


	17. Molly, Louise and Elizabeth

Sherlock wonders if all of this is a good idea: in his enthusiasm of knowing that John liked him back — as a friend, at least — he had forgotten about the fact that he is not supposed to do relationships. At all.

Both of their meetings led Sherlock to embarrassment. First by creating a human fountain out of John's nose, then by being so obviously surprised about John's bisexuality (How! Didn't! He! Deduce! That! Sooner!), and topping that, he even made him believe that he is dating James Sholto. _Him_! Mr. "You Know?"! Of all people!

Then again, he wonders why did John take him to the only place on Earth Sherlock could ever be interested in going. Why hasn't John been rebuked by Sherlock's honest questions about his orientation? Why does John want to see him again? Him! Sherlock Holmes! Of all people!

"—dress is over the top! It doesn't fit her tone of skin at _all_! Come on!"

Sherlock turns his head towards Irene, seated in the leather armchair, a bowl of popcorn under her arm, hair in a towel, babbling endlessly about the fashion choices of some award show's red carpet. He can read Irene. He can read John too, but only the obvious things, like what he has eaten for lunch, how long he had partied the night before or what exactly he is doing based on the rapidity, frequency and time of his text replies. What he doesn't know is what matters truly: what John really thinks of him, if his interest is real or faked, for some reason (that would not be the first time). Without this capital information, everything else is useless.

Sherlock shakes his head, his curls dragging on the back of the pillow his head is resting on while he is lying down on the sofa, hands palm-to-palm.

"Mary could pull that off, obviously, with her body type and being blonde—"

Mary again. _Mary_ , Sherlock sneers in his mind. He never knew about her three weeks ago and now she is everywhere, both with Irene, and with John. The latter being the worst, but Irene's constant reminder of her new girlfriend (date? sex friend?) doesn't help either, especially not with her lack of understanding private space. He had had to live through a direct retelling of Irene and Mary's latest bedroom adventures, as if he was interested in that in the first place even with Irene telling him that friends talk about those things, before he closed the door to her face, declaring the bathroom and his shower-time as off limits to any _friendly_ discussion she wants to have with him. Now he can stop himself from imagining John and Mary together, and wonders what went wrong between them. By society's standards, they seemed to be the perfect couple. And for that, Sherlock can only loathe her more and more.

Not that it matters anymore, Mary is clearly with Irene, whatever the correct status describing their relationship is (why must it always be so complicated?). Which doesn't mean that he stands a chance with John, even considering his orientation. He had seemed relaxed, happy, even, when he though Sherlock was going out with Sholto. Maybe he sees Sherlock as a good friend, and good friends inquire about each other's relationship.

"—coming, won't you?"

He realizes that Irene has just asked him a question.

"What?" he snaps at her, sitting up and instinctively grabbing the 7up bottle Irene had put for him on the coffee table.

"I asked you if you were coming to the LGBT+ half-semester party."

"Certainly not."

Irene sighs, but keeps her eyes on the TV. "You should. You never go out!"

"There are reasons for that, I believe."

"What if I told you that John Watson will be there?"

Sherlock straightens himself on the sofa. "How do you know _that_?" Although it wouldn't be the most surprising thing for John to attend a party. Did Irene talk to him? Behind Sherlock's back?

"Because he confirmed it on the Facebook event, you arse. So, will you come?"

Ah. His shoulders relax a bit. Obvious, really. But Sherlock doesn't see how it is supposed to make him want to go. If anything, John being there is the exact reason why he should avoid the party altogether, although it would be a good occasion to test his methods in catching's Sholto's stalker.

Sherlock had thought about telling John about the case his is currently working on, before deciding not to. His help could have been paramount, and his interest in Sherlock's work is evident, but Sherlock had swore to Sholto not to tell anybody else about what happened, even if John was a childhood ~~friend~~   _boy_ friend. For the last few days Sherlock had gone alone, every night to a new pub, waiting and playing his distracted card, an obvious target to pick up on. He has made progress last night: he is quite sure that Sholto's invisible attacker had spotted him. Sherlock has made good progress in a matter of few days, proving once again that he gets the work done far better than any idiotic police officer.

"So?" Irene reminds him.

"I'll see," he says, trying to get her off her back and let him think in peace.

 

 

 **John Watson:** Did you see me? :-)

 **Sherlock Holmes:** You were dressed in red and waving your hands like a deranged man in my direction. It was quite hard to miss.

 **John Watson:** Hahaha all right. So, what did you think of the game?

 **Sherlock Holmes:** If it wasn't for Anderson' ineptitude to correctly hold a ball you would have won.

 **John Watson:** That is indeed a correct analysis.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Why are you talking like that?

 **John Watson:** I was imitating YOU. :P

_John Watson set the nickname for Sherlock Holmes to Genius Detective_

**Genius Detective:** Seriously? Isn't "Sherlock Holmes" already entirely adequate?

 **John Watson:** Meh. A bit formal if you ask me.

_Genius Detective set the nickname for John Watson to John_

**John:** I marvel at your extensive imagination.

 **Genius Detective:** No, that's a proper nickname. How far in your daily alcohol consumption are you to have thought of "Genius Detective"?

 **John:** It's not a nickname, Sherlock, it's literally my NAME! And I'm not drinking tonight, if you want to know.

 **Genius Detective:** Then why bother going out? You lost, there is not need to celebrate.

 **John:** Wow, did we really? I didn't know that.

 **Genius Detective:** …

 **John:** Oh come on! Just kidding. And I like going out. Dancing. Drinking. The people.

 **Genius Detective:** 1\. You're texting me, so not dancing. 2. You just said you were not drinking. 3. Don't pretend that you like these people.

 **John:** False on point 3. They're fine. A bit dumb but fine.

 **Genius Detective:** You find them boring. Or you wouldn't be texting me now two weeks in a row while supposedly "having fun partying".

 **John:** Okay, fine. But for your information, it would be less boring if you were here.

 **Genius Detective:** I don't do parties.

 **John:** I know, I know. Still, would be an interesting place to continue your study on uni blokes haha. The Lion's Mane is basically their natural habitat.

 **Genius Detective:** I am not sure I could possibly survive the lack of intellect in such a place.

 **John:** :P

 **John:** And on that, I have to go, Bill is dangerously close to being sick.

 **John:** See you Thursday, same time, same place?

 **Genius Detective:** Obviously.

 **John:** :-)

 

 

Sherlock pushes the lab's door, twenty minutes after eight, his guts clenching, unsure if John is still waiting for him at this hour. "Sorry, John, I—"

He stops, eyes focusing on the only presence in the room, a young brunette woman wearing the usual white lab coat and goggles. She turns around and smiles warmly, walking closer towards him. "Hi! It's Sherlock, isn't it? I'm sorry but John couldn't be here tonight, he called me half-an-hour ago saying that he had something important to do, but he still wanted to give you access to the lab, so here I am. I'm Molly, by the way."

She extends her hand, but Sherlock doesn't take it. Something important to do? And John could not have notified him first? Unless that was his plan from the start, arranging some kind of date with an unknown woman. Sherlock considers leaving, turning on his heels and slamming the door behind him. No, that would be proving that he is only here for John. Which he _is_. But- anyway, he will stay: he has an anatomy lab for himself, well, nearly for himself, and he plans to make good use of it.

He walks over to the counter, intending to practice his suture skills, something he did not have time to do since last week with John.

"If you have any questions I'll just be over there," the woman — _Molly_ — says, again with that warm tone Sherlock instantly loathes. She is so obviously pitying him, and he doesn't need any of it.

"I won't."

They work in silence for a few minutes, Molly walking around behind his back, probably preparing the lab for tomorrow's class. Remembering what John told him about sutures, Sherlock tries his best on the skin-like pad, but the frustration makes his hands go unsteady, and it shows.

Molly checks on him, at last. "That's really a good job! Although you could make them a bit straighter, or there will be—"

"—scarring, I know that," he snaps at her. Does she really needs to talk to him as if he were three years old? "You should go. You don't want to be here, and in fact, you have a date tonight. Nobody brings their purse to the lab if they're not going anywhere after, and the lab coat you're wearing is not your own, again, quite useless to bring one if you're going out later."

"How—"

"You're dressed under your lab coat and your heels are killing you, you're not used to wearing them, therefore you're going on a date rather than to a party with your friends, as shows the fact that you can hardly stand in one place due to the stress you're currently under. Afraid that it will go wrong? You wouldn't be if you were seeing a total stranger, but that doesn't seem like you, due to your visible shyness, so I'd rather go with friend. Yes, you're going on a first date with a long-time friend you can't stop texting with since I arrived here, and you're rather hopeful it will end well, as your bright-red lipstick shows. Terrible shade, by the way, if _I_ were you I wouldn't want to bring out my lips so much."

Her smile fades instantly, and Sherlock beams internally. Finally she might get off his back. For a moment, she looks as if she is about to hit him (it wouldn't be the first time, really), but she retreats to the next metal table, checking a binder containing information on the corpse in there.

Sherlock is a bit disturbed by this lack of comeback, but it doesn't keep him from shoving the pad and the needles in a random drawer, swinging his bag on his back. There is no need to stay here any longer.

"I get that you're upset, you know," Molly mutters from behind her binder, without raising her eyes to meet his.

His anger melts away for barely a second. Is he that obvious? "Don't let me keep you from your date," he simply says, closing the lab door behind him, before he strolls down the corridor. _At least someone seems to be successful_ , he wants to add, but doesn't. He needs a cigarette.

 

 

Half-an-hour later, Sherlock is smoking, sitting on the kitchen counter, regretting for once in his life that Irene is not here so that someone could distract him from his thoughts. He checks his phone with one hand: there's only one message from John, sent approximately at the time he got in the lab.

 **John:** Sorry I can't make it tonight, but I asked Molly to open the lab for you. I'll explain later! Have fun, though!

He doesn't tap on the message, leaving it unread, but goes instead on Facebook, seeing that he's got a new notification: Irene inviting him to the LGBTQ+ event, that will take place on Saturday night in two weeks' time.

He scrolls down his news feed, before something catches his attention: it's a picture of John, uploaded barely five minutes ago by someone named Louise Morstan, where he is standing in the middle of a populated living room, a woman with an arm around his shoulders and a drink in her other hand, evidently bringing him closer to her.

 

_Louise Morstan: A picture of the happy couple! Just over two years now!_

 

_William Morstan: Glad you could make it, John! I'll be there next time and I'll bring some beer to celebrate!_

_^Louise Morstan: He belongs to our clan now. xoxo See you next time, Will!_

 

_Constance Morstan: How lovely! I hope next time you all come to Birmingham, your Nana misses you so much my darlings! And Johnny darling, it's been two years now, I hope I'll live to see the day you and Elizabeth have beautiful children. But don't forget, marriage first! xxxxxxx Big kisses to all the family and Louise, please tell your father that I've received my last blood test and that everything is all right, I will call him this week-end. Have fun and stay safe xxxxxxx_

_^Louise Morstan: Oh my god Nana, people don't get married at twenty anymore! But I will tell Dad, yes (and don't forget you can message me privately, you don't have to tell me here where everybody can see) xxxx See you soon!_

 

That's enough.

Sherlock closes his phone, and stares at the kitchen's tiles, his cigarette slowly burning out in his hand. He was so focused on discovering John's orientation that he completely forgot to ask him if he was seeing anyone else at the moment. Which he does, evidently, and for two years now.

He vigorously extinguishes his cigarette in a nearby plate before jumping off the counter. If John is going out with this Elizabeth, then why has he been so openly flirting with him for the last two weeks? Because now Sherlock can't deny that it was flirting. Is John bored of his long-term relationship? Does he wants to cheat on his girlfriend? Does he already  _do_ that often?

Sherlock can't believe that John would be the type to have multiple affairs on the side, but he is not sure what to think of it right now. Maybe John is simply flirty like that with everyone, that he can't help it, and sees Sherlock as a good friend. Maybe he took pity on him. Maybe he did it all on a dare, and waits for the exact moment where he can humiliate him in front of everybody.

No. It doesn't sound like John.

But then again, it doesn't seem like Sherlock knows him at all.

He slams the door to his bedroom and jumps on his bed, attacking his pillow with his fists. That's exactly why he shouldn't have started it all, it always ends wrong. So wrong. Mycroft had warned him, of course, after Victor, but no, Sherlock had to go and fall for someone else again.

Because now he can't deny it.

He rolls on his side and stares at the ceiling, retrieving his phone from his pocket. John has sent him more message but he doesn't bother with reading them. He is thoroughly done with him now.

He looks again at the notification Irene send him:

 

_LGBTQIA+ Half-Semester Party_

_To celebrate the end of your half-semester exam week, put on your nicest clothes and come have fun with us!_

John Watson _,_ Victor Trevor _and one other friend are participating to this event._

 

Now that he has nothing to loose, the aspect of going out, dancing and getting totally drunk doesn't seem so bad. He could even make some progress on Sholto's case. Yes. That would be good. Sherlock clicks on the button meaning he will go to the event, rolls once again on his bead and buries his face in his pillow.

He doesn't sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorryyy for the angst!


	18. APOLOGIES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this epistolary chapter, so here comes the quick update, as an apology for making you suffer last chapter. :P

**Mary (1 new message)**

________________19:43___________________

 **Mary:** John…

 **John:** Yes?

 **Mary:** I need a favor.

 **John:** Oh no.

 **John:** They're back in town?

 **Mary:** I'm sooo sorry!

 **Mary:** They've prepared a surprise for us tonight.

 **John:** For US???

 **John:** You haven't told them yet?

 **Mary:** You know how they'll react. Of course I haven't.

 **John:** I can't tonight. I have other plans.

 **Mary:** I know John, but please!!!

 **John:** Tell them we broke up. Or, you know, the truth.

 **Mary:** I already told them you'd be there. I panicked!!! Sorry!!!

 **John:** Tell them you panicked and didn't want to admit we broke up.

 **Mary:** I'm a bad liar!

 **John:** You're NOT a bad liar Mary, we pretended for nearly a YEAR and now you're telling me that they still think we're together?

 **Mary:** I get that you're angry John but they prepared that huge surprise for us and everything is going to hell if you're not there, pleaseee come!

 **Mary:** You don't even have to stick to the end you can pretend you have some manly activity to attend to after — drinking beer in front of football or whatnot and they'll let you go, but I really need you for this one! You can go back to your date after that!

 **John:** No.

 **John:** And it's not a date.

 **Mary:** Please! You know I'd do the same for you!

 **John:** Your "favor" has been going on for two years now. Get yourself another beard.

 **Mary:** Seriously John, I'm begging. Please please please! I'll owe you tons of favors!

 **John:** You already owe me tons of favors.

 **Mary:** Oneee last time, please! I promise that by 9h30 you'll be free as a bird.

 **John:** …

 **John:** ONE last time, Mary.

 **Mary:** OH MY GOD YOU'RE THE BEST!  <3333333

 **John:** I bloody hope I'm not going to regret this.

 **Mary:** You won't! Thank you, thank you!

 

* * *

 

**Genius Detective**

________________20:22___________________

 **John:** Sorry I can't make it tonight, but I asked Molly to open the lab for you. I'll explain later! Have fun, though!

 

________________21:57___________________

 **John:** Sherlock? You weren't at the lab and neither was Molly. Everything all right?

 

* * *

 

**Useless queers + Greg + Molly**

________________20:35___________________

 **Staaamfooord:**  So, anyone for neuro chap. 12?

________________21:32___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** Where are you all at???

________________21:38___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** This conversation is so dead.

 **Staaamfooord:** @Molls? @Bloody Mary? @Grumpy Bi? @George?

_Staaamfooord set the nickname for George to Graham_

**Staaamfooord:** … no reaction? Well that's a first.

 **Staaamfooord:** Oooh, we're Thursday though. So John will be with Stitch-Guy at this hour.

 **Staaamfooord:** Mary is with Irene, I guess.

 **Staaamfooord:** Greg said that he was going to be out, and so said Molly.

 **Staaamfooord:** Well, that's a bummer.

 **Graham:** SHUT! UP!

 **Staaamfooord:** A sign of life!

 **Graham:** My phone can't fucking stop beeping because of you Mike, control yourself a bit!!

 **Staaamfooord:** Where are you anyway?!

 **Graham:** At the Root Cellar. On a date.

 **Staaamfooord:** Hahahaha Greg willing to go vegetarian on a date, you must be desperate for some action.

 **Staaamfooord:** Btw, isn't that Molly's favorite plaNOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

 **Staaamfooord:** !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 **Molls:** Mike, kindly stop talking now.

 **Staaamfooord:** ;))))))

________________21:58___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** Hey… @Grumpy Bi, why exactly is @Bloody Mary's cousin posting pictures of you two at a family party? Aren't you supposed to be at the lab, John?

 **Grumpy Bi:** Holy fucking shit

 **Staaamfooord:** Don't forget the sound advice from the 90 years-old, do marry before you have kids.

 **Grumpy Bi:** Mary!!!!

 **Bloody Mary:** Oh shit I can't believe she actually DID that! Sorry sorry sorry John!!

 **Staaamfooord:** Sooo… you're still together-but-not-together? How does that work? Do we also have to pretend again?

 **Bloody Mary:** Nah, don't worry Mike, I'll set the record straight.

 **Bloody Mary:** … Or not straight in that case.

________________22:32___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** Okay good, but anyone for that chapter 12 though?

 

* * *

 

**Genius Detective**

________________22:08___________________

 **John:** Sherlock, seriously, I can explain.

 **John:** It isn't how it looks like.

 **John:** God I this line is overused. And often in the context when it's exactly how it looks like.

 **John:** In this case, it ISN'T!!

 **John:** Seriously.

_(Words With Friends) John just played APOLOGIES for 12 points._

**John:** At least I have luck with the letters.

 **John:** Sherlock! Please answer me!

_John called Genius Detective on Messenger._

_Call unanswered._

**John:** Okay.

 **John:** I get it.

 **John:** Still.

 

* * *

 

_Louise Morstan: A picture of the happy couple! Just over two years now!_

 

_Mary Morstan: Hello everyone I'd like to officially announce that John and I broke up, due to us actually not dating during the last two years and because I'm a LESBIAN. I guess that should clear up some things. Anyway. It was time you all know. And please stop calling me Elizabeth, MARY is my first name and the one you should use._

_^Louise Morstan: Holy crap!! Wow, too bad for John though!_

_^^William Morstan: We finally found out who the gay cousin is!!!_

_^^^Mary Morstan: …_

 

_^Constance Morstan: I do not quite understand what you mean by that darling, you're sure you're not with John anymore? He is so nice! Please ask your father if he has received that letter I send last week. xxx_

_^^Mary Morstan: It means I'm just interested in women, Nana. I'm quite sure that John does not qualify in that category. And I will tell Dad._

_^^^Constance Morstan: Oh I see! Just like aunt Anna then! xxx_

_^^^^Louis Morstan: Aunt ANNA?????_

 

* * *

 

**Mary**

________________23:17___________________

 **John:** You didn't have to do that.

 **Mary:** It's fine. You're right, it was time they knew anyway.

 **John:** But your parents?

 **Mary:** Sod my parents, I'm not living with them anymore so I don't care.

 **Mary:** I hope you still got to your date alright.

 **John:** Nope. He wasn't there when I got to the lab.

 **Mary:** Have you explained though?

 **John:** He isn't answering me. I think he saw the picture.

 **Mary:** Oh shit, I'm so sorry. You have to explain it to him! He'll understand!

 **John:** Try explaining something to someone who doesn't want to hear anything. He's literally the most stubborn person I've ever met.

 **Mary:** Good thing YOU're the most stubborn person I've ever met. :P

 **John:** I don't know. Maybe I care too much.

 

* * *

 

~~ _Sherlock_ ~~

_Nope, too formal._

~~ _Hey_ ~~

_Not formal enough??_

_Sherlock,_

_I know that you saw that picture and I really owe you an explanation._ _Mary and I dated ~~a few times two years ago back when we began med school.~~_

_Mary and I are_ _not_ _together. We went out a few times,_ ~~ _slept together once and it was a total disaster but_ ~~

_Really not that kind of detail you want to open a letter with, Watson_

_Okay, it's been a week now and you're still not talking to me, Sherlock, and I know you're mad and upset and you have every right to be because I kind of fucked up over and over again._ ~~_This time I really deserve you to hit me in the face._ _Okay I deserved it the first time too._~~

_I'll have to rewrite this properly._

_I really should have told you from the start that I'm Mary's beard but I didn't even know that we were still doing that. That's the reason I wasn't there last week at the lab. And I know it's really confusing because Irene probably never showed you a picture of her or you weren't interested in seeing one (more likely, yes), but she's the woman in the picture and I swear we were just pretending, and her folks and family call her by her middle name Elizabeth because they're kind of extra religious and every woman in their family is named Mary. Two years ago we started dating, went out a few times but it didn't really work out — well, about that time Mary realized that she is a lesbian, and I accepted to pretend to be with her, her extra-religious parents being extra-homophobic too and I really don't know why I'm trying to use humor right now it really isn't the time or place anyway I don't even know why I'm telling you that I guess I'm trying to find excuses but I really couldn't tell her no when she asked me to help you tonight but that was really a bloody stupid thing to do on my part since I really like you and I was hoping that this was going somewhere and_

_I don't know why my secondary school teacher said that writing was my strength all those years ago since I clearly can't put down two words without making a complete fool of myself._

_I guess I just wanted to say sorry._

~~_And that you were kind of mean to Molly but I probably shouldn't be the one to judging right now._ ~~

_Anyway you don't want to hear from me so I think it's better that I just don't send this or anything, you've made it pretty clear and I don't want to annoy you or anything like that. What the fuck am I doing then, writing it all anyway._

_I saw that you were coming to the party next week so maybe I'll try to tell you this stuff then but then again I don't want to pass for the obsessive creep_ ~~ _I totally am_ ~~ _._

_Well fuck._

 

 

 


	19. That was a mistake

The reflection is staring back at him just as Sherlock arranges his shirt collar. He has spent the last hour in the bathroom, inspecting over and over again every detail with quiet determination. He intends to look his best at tonight's party, with his navy blue shirt, tight trousers, black jacket, Dr Martens and the Belstaff, of course. 

Irene barges in the bathroom with the eyeliner she was searching ten minutes ago in one hand, whistling in Sherlock's direction. "At least one of us is getting lucky tonight," she teases, claiming the mirror to finish her make-up, referencing the last fight she had with Mary which lead her to occupy Baker Street again. Knowing Irene, Sherlock predicts that their domestic will be long forgotten by the end of the night in copious amounts of makeup sex he will be hearing about for years to come. He, on the other end, does not plan on _getting lucky_.

As if she can read his mind, Irene stares at his reflection in the mirror and smiles. "Oh come on, don't be so hard on yourself. Who knows? You might find a handsome bloke to shag by the end of the night… Or to kiss and cuddle, whatever you're into," she adds, winking at him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and steps to the side, retrieving his coat from his bedroom. It's not the first time Irene teases him on the subject of his virginity, which he does not particularly care about, since the whole concept is a social construct anyway. In fact, Sherlock has perfect control over his transport, and if he needs to eat to survive, sex most certainly doesn't have that power on his life. Although, _lately_ …

"Help me out, would you?" Irene's voice brings him back to reality, as she offers him her back. He comes closer and zips her dress, while she thanks him. "And if you don't find anybody interesting, don't forget that John Watson is going to be there too. Although I'm sure you can do better than him."

Oh no, he really _can't_ , though. John Watson has been the only person since Victor and beside Irene to approach him without holding a ten foot pole between them. It's an occurrence that will simply not happen again, since nobody in their right mind would be willing to befriend Sherlock, and now he is certainly going to avoid any situation of the kind anyway.

Irene finishes applying her lipstick, and does a one-hundred and eighty degrees on herself, looking pleased. "So, what do you think?"

"You look good," he says with a shrug.

"Good? _Good_?! I'm to die for, and you know it! Now, Sherlock Holmes, get your coat on and let's go break some hearts, shall we?" She smiles and he follows her in the sitting room and down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson greeting them as they're leaving with a cheerful squeal. "Look at you both all dressed up! Have fun, and _don't_ mix drugs with alcohol!"

"We're adults for God's sake," Sherlock reminds her, rolling his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson pats him on the shoulder and sticks his collar up in a motherly attempt to make him less vulnerable to the cold outside. 

"Don't worry Mrs. Hudson, I'll keep an eye on him," Irene says with a wink, and closes the door behind them.

 

The pub is crowded: the event has gained a lot of visibility, to Irene's satisfaction, as she was part of the organization team. Sherlock swings his coat over his shoulder, blinded by the blue and purple lights roaming the room, eyes acclimatizing to the darkness.

"Wait!" Irene says, trying to speak over the loud music, "I think I just saw Mary. I have a thing or two to say to her, won't be long." On that she trails a path through the crowd and disappears altogether from Sherlock's vision, clearly breaking her promise of sticking with him for the whole evening. He would bet his brain that it'll be the last he sees of her tonight.

Whatever: he frankly doesn't care at all, and it's not like he needs a caretaker at all. Not liking people doesn't mean he can't behave around them, and maybe tonight will prove paramount regarding Sholto's case. His eyes swipe across the room full of dancing and chatting people, and before he can hide properly, notices the well-known blond mop of curls and the body attached to it coming in his direction.

"Isn't that Sherlock Holmes — at a _party_! What a _surprise_ ," the man says, with a tone that doesn't indicate surprise at all.

"Victor," Sherlock grumbles. He really can't escape, now, and to his disappointment, there is nothing new to deduce about Victor to pass the time, maybe apart from the fact that he came to the party in his new car offered by his father, that his black turtleneck ( _ew_ ) hides a love bite high on his throat, and to Sherlock's satisfaction, he cannot help but notice how he has gained a few centimeters on him over the last year. Good.

"How are you? I was thinking of you the other day. Seb hasn't heard of you in _ages_. He wondered if you'd died or something like that."

" _Visibly_ not."

Victor does not seem to register the answer, but keeps on talking. "Seb's fine, before you ask." As if he is going to. "So, what grand occasion brings you to the pub, today?"

"I'm working," Sherlock sneers. It's not exactly a lie, but the sooner he can get away from Victor the better it will be.

"Riiight, working!" Victor winks at him. "Still going on about that private detective stuff?"

"Consulting detective, and yes, I—"

"Wonderful! Now, Sherls, let me buy you a drink and you can tell me more about it, all right?"

Victor is slightly leaning closer, pupils dilated, flirty smile on his face. Really? It's not like Sherlock is going to fall for _that_ trick again. "Not before you buy yourself a brain, Trevor. Goodbye," he adds, turning on his heels.

Before he can walk away, he feels Victor's hand on his wrist, tugging him closer. "Listen, Sherlock." He is whispering, or at least what can be considered as whispering with the loud music playing all around them as the young people continue to dance, not minding them at all. "I don't know where you're getting your stuff now, but you're a good friend and Seb is willing to lower his prices if you—"

"I am not, and never was, your friend. Piss off."

Sherlock frees his wrist and walks away, vaguely hearing a "You know where to find me!" over the music. No. He doesn't need Victor, or Seb, or any of them. He'd rather be alone than in company of their lot, and he is not exactly alone these days. Even though he would never admit to it out loud, he's got Mrs. Hudson, Irene, even that bloke who keeps talking to him during rugby matches and who's name he has already forgotten. And John, of course, although he's not sure if their friendship is supposed to survive the two weeks of silence Sherlock imposed them himself. Maybe he should try to make peace with him. But John obviously flirting with him when dating a woman parallels what happened with Victor with so much accuracy that Sherlock is not sure he is ready to forgive him.

He gets to the bar and orders a 7up: even though consuming a large amount of alcohol to forget this mess seems interesting right now, he still has not given up on the possibility of working on Sholto's case. Therefore, sugar will keep his energy up, whereas alcohol would have the opposite effect. And it tastes better anyway.

Sherlock quietly sips his drink, eyes roaming on the crowd in front of him, deducing things about them. He can't seem to find Irene right now, at this hour she is probably making out with Mary in a corner somewhere. His eye is caught by the group entering the pub.

Mike Stamford with his girlfriend. (Stephanie? Sarah?)

That man from the rugby matches.

And John Watson himself.

Wearing a pale-blue polo tee-shirt that seems white under the light, tight jeans (is he wearing _any_ underwear?!), a pair of snickers and his usual black coat in one hand. Hair slightly ruffled. Every goddamn muscle of his body shining under the spotlights.

Ngh.

John's eyes automatically find his, and Sherlock turns his head the other way. Did John see him stare? Please, don't let him—

"Soda? That's a bit cheap. Can I buy you a drink?"

For the _love of God_! Is he some kind of idiots' magnet? Sherlock turns his head towards the stranger, ready to snap back and decline the offer, before he gets a good look at him. Tall. Brown hair. Bit old for uni but that doesn't mean anything, after all. Definitely no sense of fashion whatsoever: dark hoodie and black trousers.

Oh.

_Oh_.

"Sure," Sherlock replies, setting his own drink on the side.

The man smiles. "All right. Two Manhattans, over here," he orders. "So, you're from uni, then?"

"Aren't _you_?"

"Oh yeah, err— physics."

The bartender leaves their drinks on the counter in front of them. "Brilliant," Sherlock says, faking interest as much as possible, leaning a bit towards him, "I've always wanted for a physicist to explain me the Bose-Einstein condensate. Read lots about it but never quite fully understood the concept."

The man seems lost for words for a moment (of course he would), opening and closing his mouth like a particularly slow goldfish. "Err— that's usually third date material."

Gross. Sherlock chuckles heartily, turning his head towards the crowd, leaving his drink out of sight. "Sure. I'm studying chemistry myself, you know, it's all very _practical_."

He notices the man moving in the corner of his eye. Sherlock's heart starts beating faster.

Close!

So close…

Three things happen at the same time:

John Watson screaming, "Oh, FUCK NO!".

The man falling off his chair after receiving a well-thrown sucker punch.

The sound of glass breaking on the floor on the other side of the bar counter, liquid spilling everywhere.

Sherlock has barely the time to react, hesitating between going for the man or the drink, but it's already too late: John's friend is already restraining him from kicking the man down, who scrambles away under the eyes of a few dozens of people looking at them.

"No no no no no no," Sherlock mutters under his breath, climbing on his chair and fiddling with the broken glass on the counter, trying to see if there's any way he can salvage the situation and still obtain a viable sample of his drink. No: there's no point now, it's been contaminated with the counter and the floor.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asks behind his back, finally released by his friend, but Sherlock doesn't even bother to answer. He was so close! "Really, we can get you another drink, that's not a prob—"

"You've ruined everything!"

He turns on his heels, looking at John, who seems to not understand a thing of what's happened (he doesn't). "He _drugged_ your drink!"

Sherlock fists his hands, feeling his chest swell. "I was _counting_ on that! I'm working! I would have analyzed the chemical composition of the drink so I could have known which drug he uses and where he obtains it, or even have gotten him to tell me, but you've ruined both possibilities!"

John puts his hand on his forehead, starting to realize his mistake. "I'm sorry, I really am, I was just trying to—"

"Yes, well _don't_. You're not my mother nor my boyfriend —I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself without some idiot trying to play heroes and interfering with serious work!"

Boiling with anger, Sherlock doesn't even wait for John to answer. Instead, he does the first thing he thinks of, breaking through the crowd, locating the blond head on the dance floor, and this time, takes Victor's wrist and tugs him towards the door.

"You're driving me home," he grumbles, without looking back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... sorryyy?
> 
> Two things:  
> The updates might be getting a bit slower now since my exams are coming and I need to stop procrastinating and actually study. I'll still try to update this fic every 3/4 days, but don't worry if you see that sometimes it takes longer. I really can't predict it at this rate!
> 
> Right now, from what I've planned, the fic will be 30 chapters long, so we have eleven additional chapter coming after this one. They will probably get longer too! I'm saying 30, but it might end up being longer if I decided to add some stuff, which is likely. Definitely not less than thirty, though, and you'll be notified when the story will be coming close to an end, don't worry. :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and commenting, you're all amazing. <3


	20. Oh Fuck No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The party, from John's POV this time.

**Useless queers + Greg + Molly (243 new messages)**

________________20:16___________________

**Bloody Mary:** Yep, twas ugly, but at least it's done now.

**Molls:** Oh I'm so sorry. :(

**Bloody Mary:** Meh. Too bad for them. I have my own place anyway, it's not like I have to suffer their sodding opinion every day anymore.

**Bloody Mary:** And the rest of the family is cool with it. Even Nana. Proves how fucking close-minded my folks are. Anyway.

**Molls:** Maybe they'll come around?

**Bloody Mary:** I don't care.

**Bloody Mary:** Sometimes I'd just rather be an orphan. :P

**Graham:** Mary Twist, soon to be staring in the latest Dickens' adaptation!

_Bloody Mary set the nickname for Graham to Oliver._

**Oliver:** That doesn't even make any sense!

_Oliver set the nickname for Oliver to Greg_

_Bloody Mary set the nickname for Greg to Geoffrey_

**Geoffrey:** Fine. I give up.

**Bloody Mary:** @Grumpi Bi, any developments regarding Stitch-Guy?

**Grumpy Bi:** He has a name, you know. And no. Unless… he was at the game on Saturday, Greg?

**Geoffrey:** Sorry, didn't see him. :(

**Grumpy Bi:** And @Staaamfooord, did Stella see anything on Monday?

**Staaamfooord:** Teach talked during the whole class explaining next week's lab. Nobody could have gone to the windows. Sorry, John. -Stella

**Grumpy Bi:** As I thought. Thanks Stella.

**Molls:** Ooh. Are you all right? :(

**Grumpy Bi:** Yeah yeah, fine.

**Bloody Mary:** If you want my opinion, he's a bastard. You did nothing wrong and he won't even let you explain. He doesn't deserve you.

**Geoffrey:** Ooor maybe what John needs right now is to take it off his mind for a bit. 

**Bloody Mary:** Maybe. Are you still coming to the party on Saturday?

**Grumpy Bi:** I don't know if I should. He'll probably be there and I don't want to give the impression that I'm stalking him or something like that. And I'll be third-wheeling Mike and Stella.

**Molls:** Bring someone with you, then!

**Grumpy Bi:** Right. Because that will help the situation.

**Molls:** No, not like at date, but a friend, or something!

**Grumpy Bi:** I'm all ears if you have an idea. And you don't. So that's that.

**Molls:** Oh, Greg could go with you! He's dropping me off at nine so you'd have plenty of time to go after that.

**Geoffrey:** What?

**Grumpy Bi:** What?

**Geoffrey:** On second thought, I'd loooove to be your date, Johnny. ;)

**Grumpy Bi:** …

**Geoffrey:** No really. Look. Stamford and Stella are going and are going to be together during the whole evening. Mary is going to find her girlfriend on the first occasion, Molly can't come, so you're stuck with me.

**Bloody Mary:** She's not my girlfriend!!

**Grumpy Bi:** You're not my only friends, you know that, don't you?

**Geoffrey:** Please. Stop pretending.

**Grumpy Bi:** … All right. Fine. Whatever. But if I see you chatting up lesbians, you're getting out.

**Molls:** He better not!

**Geoffrey:** Don't worry, you have nothing to fear, I am, after all, already taken.

**Grumpy Bi:** Ah, that's right. Sorry Molly.

**Molls:** No worries :)

**Geoffrey:** So that's settled. Are you taking Harry's van, John?

**Grumpy Bi:** Yeah. I'll get you at 9h30 or something like that.

**Geoffrey:** Great! Can't wait ;)

 

John drives in absolute silence, thinking about the two hectic weeks he had just gone through, with all of his exams, rugby practices, games, and the dying out of his friendship with Sherlock. The latter being on his mind since their last (and first) fight, he was relieved to see that he passed all his exams with fairly good grades, but his moods had shown a bit more on the field during games. They had won the first one by barely a few points, the only mistake from John's part that proved nearly fatal to the score being that he had looked at the stands, trying to find Sherlock in the crowd, missing the ball flying to his ear and that nearly took half of his face with it. After being copiously screamed after by the coach, he had clenched his jaw and had outrun himself to buy back a few points. The week after that, even though John put on his best game in an attempt to not repeat the same thing (and maybe get the fuck over Sherlock by extenuating himself a bit more), they lost the game. It was not something new, especially that they played against one of the circuit's best teams, but it still felt as if it was his fault, somehow.

On the passenger seat Greg is silent too, too busy texting (probably) Molly. Now John is the only single person in his group of friends. Not that he particularly minds or cares about that sort of thing, as his friend's girlfriends and boyfriends usually come and go, but now that he got a taste of what being _friends_ with Sherlock Holmes is like, he cannot help but crave for more. John has never gotten along so well with anybody before, but he had to go and mess things up almost instantly. Three Continents Watson can surely get a few dates, but when it comes to actually caring about someone, he has to blow things up. He _knew_ that Sherlock is the jealous type (even about his friends — well, about John), and he _knew_ that he has some kind of special ability regarding sulking since that day John questioned the importance of a mould analysis, which had earned him a good twenty-four hours of silence. But two weeks… Two weeks does not feel like a sulk.

Two weeks feels like the end.

"You all right, mate?" Greg asks.

John hums a vaguely positive sound. "Just… don't let me do stupid stuff if I get drunk." _As in_ not letting him get near Sherlock in any way. Or reciting the contents of a very, very embarrassing letter, for example.

"I would never!"

"That includes not letting me karaoke-sing _Take on Me_ after daring me to." If there was a way to erase some memories…

Greg half-pouts, half-smiles. "All right, all right, just one of those boring nights drinking beer and talking about rugby."

"I have other interests, you know."

"Yeah, like cutting people open. No thanks. Oh! Parking space right here!"

They park the van and walk down the block to get to the pub where the event is taking place, joining Mike and Stella just outside the door. They show their cards to the bouncer, get out of their coats, and enter.

On any other night, the upbeat music and the promise of alcohol would have already given John a surge of adrenaline, but right now he feels as if he would be better off in his pajamas, at home, watching Netflix or catching up on cardio. Taking a shower. Whatever, but not this. He groans.

"Okay, grandpa, let's get you something to drink," Greg orders, pushing him towards the bar.

That's when he sees Sherlock.

Casually leaning on the counter, bottle in hand, eyes roaming the dance floor with not a single care in the world. At least one of them seems to have moved on. As if they were ever something. God, he needs to stop overthinking things. But right now, John can't help but stare: black jacket, navy button-down shirt, trousers that make his legs go on for _miles_ , freaking Doc Martens. Perfect hair. Tall. Posh. Gorgeous. Amazing eyes—

Fuck.

He turns his head so fast his neck hurts. "Or maybe not," Greg says, "let's go and dance. I'm your date, you owe me one dance at _least_. And I love this song."

John doubts Greg really is ABBA's number one fan but it's a good enough excuse to escape his situation. He follows him on the dance floor, careful enough to hide at the back of the room, near the DJ who is currently blasting _Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)_ and a couple snogging against the wall. Oh, the sweet, sweet irony.

Greg, Mike, Stella and him form a small circle in the corner, dancing towards each other, Greg eyeing a girl or two from time to time, but keeping up with his promise to stick with John. After revisiting a few hits from the 80's, John decides that he's had enough, he needs something to drink or he'll just melt in a puddle of sweat on the dance floor. Sherlock will probably have moved somewhere else, if not, it's not like he can keep on avoiding him forever. He simply won't interact with him, that's all.

John tries to make his intentions clear to Greg, screaming over the music, who doesn't seem to get half of what he's saying but nods anyway. Relieved to get away from the blasting stereos for a bit, John heads up to the bar, waiting at the counter for someone to take his order.

That is when he notices the man in his back, chatting up with someone whose voice John knows too well.

"—cheap. Can I buy you a drink?"

John snorts. As if Sherlock Holmes would ever—

"Sure!"

What the hell? What the _hell?!_

Without showing so, John tries to follow their conversation. So Sherlock is interested in men. That he had guessed. Now John knows that Sherlock also feels— what, exactly? Attraction? Something like that, yes. That he is willing to go out and drink, to flirt, to get himself a date. And if greasy-hair here has a chance, how on Earth John did not? The answer is fairly simple: Sherlock is not interested in him. At all.

"—Manhattans, over here. So, you're from uni, then?"

"Aren't _you_?"

"Oh yeah, err— physics."

"Brilliant. I've always wanted for a physicist to explain me the Bose-Einstein condensate, read lots about it but never quite fully understood the concept."

There. Sherlock Holmes flirting. Obvious, really. If he was reserved around John, that was because he did not know how to let him down gently. John bites the inside of his cheek. How did he not seen this coming?

"Err— that's usually third date material."

Ew. Really? _Really_? And Sherlock is falling for that? John wants to hurl.

"Sure. I'm studying chemistry myself, you know, it's all very _practical_."

What the hell does that mean? John tries turns the words in his mind, trying to understand the sexual innuendo hidden in there. Just as he thinks that maybe it's not the time and place to eavesdrop on Sherlock trying to get himself a… whatever, he sees the man moving, waving his hand naturally and circling the rim of Sherlock's glass. Gross.

Something falls in the glass.

Oh no.

Fuck no.

Fucking hell from fuck's fucking bloody hell.

No, no, no, no. No!

He closes his eyes.

He stands up.

His jaw clenches.

His fist clench.

A second later he is vaguely aware of having yelled something.

His fist hit the man's nose with a satisfying _crack_.

Not satisfying _enough_ , though: the man is on the ground, in an open invitation to receive John's foot on every body part available. 

Before he can do so, Greg grabs him from behind, whispering something like " _Jesus, man!_ ". He doesn't care, he wants to reach for the bloke, to kick him more, to strangle him with his bare hands if he can, and he tries to, he really does, but Greg is still holding him and the man is scrambling away on the floor and security is coming towards them and everybody is looking and Sherlock seems to be only interested in the content of his fucking drink and—

John's brain seems to kick back in.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" Why is he gushing after his silly Manhattan? "Really, we can get you another drink, that's not a prob—"

Sherlock turns on his heels, facing him, and for the first time he seems genuinely angry — and a bit desperate. "You've ruined everything!"

John opens his mouth, not sure how to answer that. It was just a flirt with a stranger, for God's sake, it happens all the time! Surely Sherlock can find someone who doesn't… Well, who doesn't… "He _drugged_ your drink!"

"I was _counting_ on that! I'm working! I would have analyzed the chemical composition of the drink so I could have known which drug he uses and where he obtains it, or even have gotten him to tell me, but you've ruined both possibilities!"

It feels as if he has ben thrown a bucket full of icy water. The case Sherlock is working on. Of _course_. John closes his eyes, realizing the amplitude of his mistake. He wants to laugh nervously and bang his head on the counter at the same time. How incredibly thick he can be! But how was he supposed to know? Sherlock could have been in danger, and he was not going to sit there and let that happen.

"I'm sorry, I really am, I was just trying to—"

"Yes, well _don't_. You're not my mother nor my boyfriend —I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself without some idiot playing heroes and interfering serious work!"

On that, Sherlock storms away, before John can even think of a reply. He feels Greg nudging him, pointing in the direction of the bouncer who is visibly waiting for some explanation. Right. Not his boyfriend. Not his date. Not his friend. Not interested. He understands. From the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock leaving with some blond idiot.

Whatever.

He is not supposed to care, anymore.

Five minutes later, they're sitting in a tiny room in the back of the pub where John tries to explain what happened, that the unknown man had drugged his friend's drink, that he acted quickly before anything else could happen, that the man ran off and even asks if there is some way to check on the security cameras if they can identify the man in question.

Ten minutes later, they release him and Greg into the pub again, on the condition that they do not raise any more fights. John won't. The only thing he cares about right now is drowning in alcohol, and so he heads for the bar. Just as his beer is put down on the counter, his mobile vibrates in his pocket.

Nobody ever calls him.

He quickly retrieves it and checks the screen: it's Sherlock. Sherlock never calls. Sherlock prefers to text. "Sorry, Greg, I've got to take this."

He answers the call as soon as he's out of the pub. "Sherlock?"

"John?" His voice sounds a little bit shaky.

Not. Good.

"Sherlock? Is everything all right? Where are you?"

"Oh, yes— it's fine. Fine." John can nearly hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, and he relaxes a bit. Then: "You came in your sister's van's, right? Going by the mud stain on the hem of your trousers on the left leg."

Show off, John wants to say, but he feels like it's not the right time. "Yeah?"

"Listen… Could you come and get me?"

John digs in his pocket to find his keys. "Where are you?"

"I— I don't know."

"How can you not know?" he says, frowning. "Are you sure you're all right? Are you hurt? Are you alone? Can you describe where you are? Inside? Outside?" A thousand scenarios are popping up in his mind, yet John stays somehow calm.

"Not like _that_. I'm in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere outside the city, about 25 minutes or so by car."

"Do you know which road? Are there houses near?"

"Nope, just forest. Wait, I there's a sign—" John hears uneven footsteps walking on what sounds to be asphalt, before Sherlock speaks again. "I'm on the A3. Just before Copse Hill."

John checks it on his GPS. "I'll be there in thirty minutes," he assures Sherlock, climbing in the car, "do you want to stay on speaker phone?"

"No need. I'll see you coming."

Sherlock ends the call, just as John puts his foot the accelerator. Thirty minutes and he will be there.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *says I would probably slow down with the updates* *updates after two days* *well, it's not like they're going to complain*
> 
> Oh, there's a Whiskey Tango Foxtrot reference in there, too. :P


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock realizes something is wrong when he sees London's lights behind them.

He had passed the first fifteen minutes in utter silence, after ordering "Baker Street," to Victor, far deep in his Mind Palace where he had replayed the evening's events eleven times by now, with no clear answer in sight, still angry at John for having ruined his first case, but also understanding (a bit) that John only wanted for him to be safe. But he does not need anybody to take care of himself. He has done fine by himself for most of his life, he does not need anybody to play heroes around him. He is not a damsel in distress, for God's sake!

It's when Sherlock reaches the decision to not apologize to John (he has nothing to apologize for, John had been stalking him in the first place at the pub, an absolute invasion of Sherlock's private life, thank you very much) when he sees that Victor is driving his Jaguar over ninety miles an hour on the highway — definitely not in Baker Street's direction.

"What exactly are you doing?" he asks, even though the answer is written clear in the sky.

Victor smiles, eyes on the road. "I thought we could pop by to see some friends. Have some fun."

"And _I_ thought you were driving me back to Baker Street."

"'S that where you live, now? I bet it's all very posh. A whole lot better than the dump you used to live in, at any rate."

"Victor," Sherlock growls.

"Sure helps having help from Big Brother Mycroft, doesn't it? Oh, I bet you have a double-bed now. That thing at Montague was simply horrendous, I can't imagine you getting laid in _that_."

Right. The further they go, the worse it is getting for Sherlock. All lights are already left behind them, there is only forest and more highway in front of them, and he doesn't know exactly on which road they are, nor in which direction they are going. He should have paid more attention, not closing himself into his Mind Palace so easily. Really, he should have known, taking Victor with him, but it was the first person he thought of when he had impulsively decided to leave with someone and to make sure John saw.

Sherlock grits his teeth. "Stop the car. _Now_. Or—"

"Or what?" Victor smiles again.

Sherlock leans over him and takes the steering wheel in one hand. If they're going down, they're going down together.

Against all odds, Victor laughs heartily and leans back in his seat, letting Sherlock control the wheel. "Really, Sherls, that's really the best you can do? Drive the car into a ditch and kill us both? Suit yourself."

Victor visibly doesn't believe that Sherlock is capable of such a thing, and just for that, it becomes Sherlock's only desire to act out of pettiness. At this speed, it's highly probably that the impact would be fatal to both of them, even though Victor is the most vulnerable to be taken out by the motor itself. Sherlock could  _technically_  survive it. It has not been unheard of.

Think. _Think_!

He lets his hand off the steering wheel, and Victor grins. He's about to open his mouth when Sherlock speaks first. "No, you're right. That would be too easy. Instead, I don't know… I _could_ simply tell everybody about your father's affair with his secretary. Let's see how that goes."

Victor's lips tighten into a line. "You wouldn't."

Sherlock smiles: he just won. Nothing is more precious to the Trevors than their family reputation. "I would. Then Mummy Trevor would file a divorce, and then it would be in the papers, and then your father would remarry a much younger woman and _her_ name would be first on his testament… But we can't risk that, can't we?"

"You wouldn't," Victor repeats, visibly sweating now.

"Try me."

The car stops on the shoulder with a screeching sound. Sherlock does not even wait for Victor to tell him to get out before he opens his door and scrambles outside, falling on his knees on the rough asphalt when the car speeds up again, leaving him behind.

That's exactly what it takes to melt the remaining bits of Sherlock's confident façade, as he gets on his feet, dizzy with anger and pent-up energy. On a whim, he takes one of his Docs from his foot and throws it as hard as he can, but it only bumps into the car's rear window and falls way down in the ditch at the side of the road.

"FUCK YOU!" he screams at the car, knowing that it's too far away for him to be heard, but he can't control it.

Sherlock quiets himself by breathing slowly, focusing on his current problem. He reaches in his pockets, checking his phone: he has signal, at least, and 4G. That's good. What is less than good is that his wallet is not there: the likely scenario being that it has fallen in the car. Right. He needs to cancel his cards when he gets home.

Home.

He is alone, in the dark, on the side of an unknown highway, left behind by the world's greatest moron and no way to actually get there.

He could get a car to stop, but they aren't many on this highway at this hour, and he probably looks like a serial killer on the run now. Nobody would take him. He can't call a cab since he has no money and has absolutely no idea where he is, nor where to tell the cab to pick him up. No buses around.

The thought of calling Mycroft turns up in his mind for half-a-second. "Absolutely not," Sherlock whispers to himself, scratching the back of his head with one hand and going through his contacts on his phone with the other. He would never ask Mycroft for help, unless he was being tortured (and even then…). Just knowing that Sherlock has been in Trevor's vicinity would have driven Mycroft utterly mad, with his usual worried looks and sighs. Calling Irene won't help: she is with Mary now, and has no car.

He _could_ call John.

No.

That's exactly why he has left the pub, to be somewhere where John is not. John is most likely mad at him right now, because that's the effect Sherlock tends to have on people, and that would definitely not guarantee him a lift back home. His call could be ignored. Or John could come and get him and ask an awful lot of personal questions Sherlock does not want to answer, which is no better.

He stares at the screen of his phone, opened on Messenger.

Technically, he does not even have John's number. (Stupid of him to never have asked, really. He could guess, but that would take a bit of time, which he does not exactly have right now. It's getting cold out there.) Technically, he has 4G.

Sherlock presses on the telephone button, and puts his phone to his ear.

John answers after three rings, and from the background noise it's easy to tell that he is still at the party. The sound goes away, and soon he hears John's voice alone. It's strangely reassuring.

"Sherlock?"

"John?" He answers. Stupid. Stupid! Of course it's him, he called. And is he shaking? From anger (obviously!), still, yes. He must control himself a bit more.

"Sherlock? Is everything all right? Where are you?"

John is getting the wrong idea. Great. Everything is fine. John can be awfully dramatic when he wants to. "Oh, yes— it's fine. Fine. You came in your sister's van's, right? Going by the mud stain on the hem of your trousers on the left leg."

"Yeah?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath in. "Listen… Could you come and get me?"

The answer comes instantly. "Where are you?"

"I— I don't know."

"How can you not know? Are you sure you're all right? Are you hurt? Are you alone? Can you describe where you are? Inside? Outside?"

Right. Now John definitely has the wrong idea. He has not been kidnapped, for God's sake... Well, he isn't _now_ , isn't he? "Not like _that_. I'm in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere outside the city, about 25 minutes or so by car." That's all he can confirm, at this point.

"Do you know which road? Are there houses near?"

"Nope, just forest. Wait, I there's a sign—" He has just spotted it, a bit down the road, half-hidden by the trees. He jogs up in its direction, awfully disturbed by the lack of shoe on one of his feet. Damn it. The sign says that he's on the A3, and going by the turn in the road, he must be near Copse Hill. He takes a look at the maps in his mind, and confirms the information to John.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes, do you want to stay on speaker phone?"

"No need. I'll see you coming."

As promised, he spots the old Subaru hatchback coming in his direction half-an-hour later, and waves towards it with his phone's light on.

He gets in the passenger's seat, not directly looking and John, and adjusts the seat to make way for his freakishly-long legs, with his trousers slightly ripped at the knees, because of his earlier fall. John spots it immediately, and before he can open his mouth, Sherlock speaks. "I'm fine," he says, crossing his arms on his chest and looking in front of him. "Just drive." He has to survive the next half-an-hour. He can do it. 

John shuts his mouth and does as he's told. The silence in the car is insufferable: Sherlock can hear John's brain clotting with thoughts. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

"Just one question," John speaks quickly after two minutes, as if afraid Sherlock is going to cut him off again. "Are you hurt? Did he—"

"No. Nothing happened." Not whatever he thinks might have happened, no.

From that point on, John visibly relaxes. A few more minutes are passed in silence, then: "Oh, sorry. Do you want some music? What do you listen to? Maybe I have it here," he says, handing Sherlock a CD-folder. "Sorry, sister's car, we only have radio or CDs."

He opens the folder, fingers going through folds and folds of disks with names he does not recognize. Frankly, Sherlock is not in the mood for music, but it's better than talking. "I mostly listen to classical."

"Shoot. I don't think she has any of that. Should have known," John adds with a smile.

As if knowing that Sherlock likes classical music would have helped materialize the complete works of Liszt in his sister's CD folder.

"Do you like Queen?"

"Really? You chose this moment to ask me my opinions on the monarchy?"

John laughs as if Sherlock has told him an excellent joke. Which Sherlock is obviously not getting himself. John looks at him, mouth gaping.

"Queen, Sherlock, the band, not _the_ Queen." Sherlock stares back, eyebrows up. Yes, and? "Oh my god, I can't believe you don't know Queen! Come on! We are the champions? Don't stop me now, I want to break free, Somebody to love?" Sherlock leans back on his seat and swallows nervously, eyes off John. What the hell is going— "Bohemian Rhapsody, no?!"

Oh.  _Song titles._ Of course.

John has not noticed anything. "Well, it's time we educate you a bit in 80's pop music. Should be in the first fold."

Not answering, Sherlock finds the CD with the word Queen written in black sharpie on it, and puts it in the player. He listens carefully to the first song, and when John asks him if he likes it, he manages the smallest of nods. It could be worse, really. The singer's voice is quite opera-like and pleasant to the ear. Another song follows the first one, the one John mentioned earlier as being _Don't stop me now_. John seems to know the lyrics but manages to not sing along but hums a bit, which Sherlock is grateful for. His head is starting to hurt with the realization of everything that happened earlier that evening.

He is getting dizzy. It's a bit hard to breathe.

"Stop the car."

"Sherlock, are you—"

"Turn right on here and stop the car."

John turns the car just as they arrive at an intersection Sherlock knows well, for having done a trail one day with his family, when he was three, in that exact same park they are arriving to, which looks very much like a deserted field.

John stops the car and Sherlock gets out of it, hands on his knees, breathing hard. He walks around the car, and opens the trunk, half-sitting and half-leaning on it, looking at the grass and the trees further in the horizon. Above him, the sky is clear. He checks his pockets again: empty, but for his mobile.

"God, I could use a cigarette."

He hears the driver's door opening, and John steps up beside him, handing him a pack of Camels. "Harry's," he justifies with a shrug.

Sherlock does not know why med-student-and-health-freak John is currently offering him a smoke, but he is certainly not going to refuse it. He still has his lighter on him, in his trouser's pocket, and lights the cigarette he has brought to his lips.

The first inhalation feels like heaven.

He lets the smoke curl up from his lips, and is about to breathe in again when John's fingers carefully seize the cigarette. Before Sherlock can protest, John puts it to his own mouth, breathing deeply, and leans against the trunk too, upper arm brushing with Sherlock's.

"Harry's," Sherlock teases.

John gives him a look and hands him back the cigarette. "Just… don't tell anyone."

So, John knows how to smoke: that needs to be added to the Mind Palace. He is not the kind that would be pressured in doing so, so he probably does it only in stressful times, a habit he picked up when he first started med school. Or when sharing with someone else, visibly. Sherlock takes the cigarette back in his mouth, fully aware that it was around John's lips not even ten seconds ago. They smoke back and forth like that for a few minutes, in companionable silence. Sherlock stares at his feet, one still lacking a shoe. He wiggles his toes, feeling the grass beneath his sock, having the insidious impression of looking like a complete fool.

Sherlock feels John's pinkie brushing his own when he puts his hand back down at his side, cigarette between his fingers, and Sherlock lets himself look at their hands. It feels like the composition of air itself has changed, yet he does not know how or why.

Maybe it is because John is breathing close.

Sherlock turns his head slowly, registering every single detail of John's face, down to his (perfect) eyelashes.

Sherlock would have to be an idiot to not get John's clear intention.

Sherlock would have to be an idiot to return John's clear intention.

Maybe he is.

Maybe he does not care.

 

He kisses him.

 

Just like that.

 

He is not exactly sure how he does it but he ends up with his lips on John's, finally, finally, finally, and he forgets what he's supposed to do with the rest of himself because that's just so good, good, good, and so he presses his lips to John's with intensity until he feels himself burning inside and outside and quite literally—

Sherlock hisses when the cigarette bud touches his hand.

"Shit!" John mutters, throwing the cigarette on the ground and stepping on it properly. "Sorry, sorry!" He takes Sherlock's hand and presses a kiss to the burnt skin, on the inside of his wrist, below his thumb. Sherlock smiles. He really can't help himself. It doesn't even hurt that much.

But John doesn't seem to be done, as he looks in the back of the trunk. "Harry must have a first aid kit somewhere, I can't believe some people don't even bring these in their—"

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Kiss me."

And he does. John does and Sherlock feels him kissing his bottom lip, a hand rummaging through his hair, tugging a bit, which prompts his mouth to fall open as if it were a natural reaction written in medical textbooks an known by all. Or maybe John just knows him that well. He next thing he feels is John's tongue against his own, and then it gets more complicated and he feels a bit lost, but it's  _oh_  so much better.

They snog and they snog and they snog for what seems like both ages or a very short time, and they are half-falling in the trunk of the car when Sherlock notices that he is tight in his trousers and that John doesn't seem that far behind. He contemplates the idea of John driving him home and leaving him off at Baker Street, as they should, because this is just kissing and nothing else and it doesn't have to be, but dear God does he want more.

"Baker Street— my place, _now_ ," Sherlock whispers, breaking the kiss, his voice a bit raspy.

John looks at him, still close, holding one side of Sherlock's face with his hand. "Really? You sure?"

" _Yes_."

John nods a few times, as if convincing himself, and licks his lips. He takes his hand back, presses one more kiss on Sherlock's lips, and jogs towards the driver's seat.

The car starts just as Sherlock gets in, heart pounding in his chest, just as _Don't stop me now_ blasts itself back to life in the player, and John drives them down the road and unto the highway again, towards London, towards Baker Street, towards a proper bedroom. God, he is an idiot. He is an idiot for kissing John Watson and for inviting him back at his place when they are not even anything, when nothing has been talked about or explained or rationalized but he wants it hard and he wants it now and he thinks that John does too because he is driving a bit above speed limit and God they would have to be idiots to do something stupid like that but—

Maybe they are.

Maybe they don't care.

Maybe it's okay.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Bob for her car knowledge and her help with this. A Subaru. Yes. "Or a mattress on wheels." Well, that too. 
> 
> Also, don't drive above speed limit, people! Not even to impress your date!


	22. My Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, as I said on tumblr, this week my exams took place so I really couldn't write much. I hope that this chapter makes it up to you. 
> 
> Please note that the rating is going up with this chapter. If you're not interested in smut, you can skip to the first break in paragraphs. :) 
> 
> I should mention that writing smut is not my forte, so I hope that this manages to be funny, awkward and everything else. :P

John nearly drives in the Ashton Martin in front of them before he hits the breaks. That's an accident he really can't afford. When he turns his head, Sherlock is already out of the car, fumbling with his keys in front of the black door that bears the number 221.

God. He can't believe what just happened.

Sherlock had gone from being a sulking mess to kissing him in barely half-a-second, to suggesting that they should take this back to his flat, as if he had been able to read John's wildest fantasies. The night had gone from nightmare to dream so quickly he feels a bit overwhelmed by it.

The wise thing to do would be to talk about it first.

The wise thing to do would be to take things slowly. Really, four weeks of back-and-forth flirting only shows how unprepared they are for this.

But seeing Sherlock opening the door and holding it for him… John really, really, really, really, really, really can't say no right now.

The moment he steps inside his lips are on Sherlock's again. "Upstairs," he mumbles into the kiss, and John follows him, managing the stairs the best as he can without leaving Sherlock out of his touch.

God, he looks edible, with his disheveled curls, swollen lips, the collar of his coat revealing a peak of white skin— John can't believe his luck, that they are doing this, that he wanted it so much and that they are actually _doing this_. Sherlock breaks the kiss and takes off his shoes— just the one, actually. That's another thing John will have to ask him about. "Are you going to stare all night?"

John grins. Impatient git! Surely there will be a lot more staring involved further down the road, but he does not bother answering and stumbles out of his shoes without much delicacy, eyes still riveted on Sherlock.

The moment he is done with that, Sherlock fists his hand in John's tee-shirt and kisses him hard (it's good, a bit sloppy and clumsy but so, so good —), John puts his hands in Sherlock's hair, tugging a bit (— it only shows that Sherlock does not have that much experience —), and Sherlock actually _whimpers_ , (— probably no experience in what they are about to do but it's not like —) and God does that go straight to John's cock (— John has any experience with men at all and whatever is —) as he kisses back hard (— sex-related he can show Sherlock oh yes he can he can show him can't he he can —), Sherlock pushing him slightly down the hallway, probably towards his bedroom, (— he can teach him John is an excellent teacher he has taught him how to do sutures surely this can't be as hard as God _he_ is hard —) and Sherlock is hard too yes John can feel that, that's good (— but surely he has to ask him first he needs to know he needs to think only thinking right now is damn hard Jesus, _hard_ ).

"Sure?" he pants, his nose brushing Sherlock's, looking directly in his eyes, pupils blown.

"Aren't _you_?"

Fair enough, John thinks, and kisses him again. Sherlock can decide for himself, and if he has chosen this moment and this bloke (him, of all people, him!) to lose his virginity to— well John really can't complain at all and do the best he can to be un-fucking-forgettable. But first— first he needs to stop thinking so much.

Which John finds out is an awfully easy thing to do when a detective's thigh is pressing against one's cock.

John's back hits a wall, or a door, or a large object, or he really does not care what it is until Sherlock blindingly turns the knob and John stumbles back-first into what seems to be a bedroom. Because it is. A bedroom. A _bit_ of thinking might not be exactly bad, John reminds himself.

His hands are roaming all over Sherlock, who has lost his coat somewhere along the way, and John starts working the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, who tries to take off John's tee-shirt at the same time.

"We need— to coordinate—" Sherlock says, and John lets him pull his tee-shirt over his shoulders first.

Sherlock's shirt follows.

John's trousers.

Sherlock's trousers.

John's socks.

Sherlock's socks.

Something in the air has definitely changed by then, as it grows heavy between them with tension and a hint of nervousness. Pushing him softly towards the bed and letting him sit down on it, John presses his lips to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, who kisses back fully, as if reassuring John that yes, he's all right, they are still doing this.

Well, somebody needs to go first.

John's pants.

"Look who is staring _now_ ," he chuckles, leaning in and putting both arms around Sherlock's shoulders, not giving him any chance to reply by kissing him right on his plush lips. He can stare all he wants to.

Now that they are (mostly) naked, John is unsure how they are supposed to proceed. Sherlock seems to be relying entirely on him, but it's not like John has ever shagged a bloke before. The mechanics are different, but surely they can figure out _something_.

"Do you have, err— condoms? Or lube?" Ten on ten for the dirty talk and the sexy confidence, Watson, he thinks to himself.

"Nope," Sherlock answers before kissing him again, sliding his hands down Johns black, slightly pulling him towards him. "—hmm clean by the way."

It's sounds as he is daring John to contradict him, but he only nods and whispers, "Me too." (Thank God for that homework in which he had to analyze his own extensive blood test results last month.)

John leans over Sherlock, pushing him on his back on the bed. He is so hard that it aches, and his hips seek friction, rubbing against Sherlock's black silky pants, against his erection that peaks out from them. It's bliss, really, only that he wants more, he _needs_ more. He tucks two of his fingers in the underwear's elastic band, and Sherlock hums a silent agreement into the kiss: John pulls them down, not leaving Sherlock's lips, until he is able to kick them off completely.

He doesn't look right away, returning to the kiss, feeling that there's a reason Sherlock had not undressed completely beforehand. It doesn't matter, not anymore, whatever Sherlock may think — he is perfect, he has perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect cheekbones, _wicked_ lips, perfect throat, perfect shoulders, perfect chest, perfect legs, perfect arms, perfect fingers, and an absolutely perfect cock John cannot _wait_ to discover. More importantly: Sherlock is his. Sherlock Holmes is his for the night, maybe for more, but at least for the night, and John must make the best out of it, to make Sherlock see that he deserves attention, and sex, and worship, and love and _fuck!_ —

Their cocks touch and John feels Sherlock tense under him. He stops, but a second later Sherlock's hands are on his arse, prompting them to rub and grind against each other. Sherlock is biting his lower lip, clearly trying to suppress any sound, but John kisses the tension away, moving his lips to his cheekbones, down his jaw, his throat, sucking and biting there to leave a mark. _His_.

Sherlock arches his back under the love bite, and John loves that he is so responsive, so sensitive to his touch. He wants to know every spot that makes him shiver, every spot that makes him whimper like that because _dear God_ that's going straight to his cock. He is not going to last, but Sherlock won't either, and just the thought of seeing him come makes John's brain short-circuit. He picks up the speed and Sherlock lets his legs fall open more and more, bucking his hips under him, and now they can't do anything but pant in each other's mouths, loosing themselves in each other's eyes.

John licks his palm and reaches between them, but he can't quite manage to get around both of them and so he decides to concentrate on Sherlock: the moment John touches him, Sherlock hisses and throws his head back, instinctively fucking into John's fist. He has never seen him so unrestrained, so full of primal urges that he wants this moment to never end, but it only takes three more strokes before Sherlock clenches, one arm around John's back, hiding his face in John's shoulder, and comes, and comes, and comes—

"Fuck, Sherlock, _yes_ , that's so fucking hot," John babbles, finally taking a look at the pink cock between his fingers, spilling on Sherlock's pale and flat belly, and it's the single most erotic thing John has ever seen.

He holds Sherlock through his seemingly never-ending orgasm, and when his head finally falls back on the mattress, his bottom lip is nearly bloody because of his teeth digging into it, cheekbones red and eyes wet at the corners. He looks utterly fucked, and stares at John as if he has discovered a new fold in the universe: disbelieving, shocked, and sated. John kisses him, straddling his lap and taking himself in hand, which is already slick with cum. He is not going to last, and so he jerks himself roughly, eyes still on Sherlock, imagining what it would be like to slip his cock between those lips, to take him from behind and to be fucked by him in return, and God, he's nearly there, he's nearly there and he feels Sherlock's hesitant hand crawling up his thigh.

"John," Sherlock whispers.

"God yes, please," he groans, letting Sherlock wrap his bloody long fingers around his cock, before John puts his hand on top, guiding him, showing him just what he likes. "Fuck, oh fuck, I'm coming, Jesus— Sherlock!"

Sherlock is touching him. Sherlock is touching him. Dear God. _Sherlock is touching him_. It starts low in his balls, and a second later he's coming, harder than he ever has before, probably shouting nonsense at the top of his lungs too. 

 

The next thing he knows, he is slumped on top of Sherlock's lean body, breathing heavily in his neck. Sherlock has let go of him, so John rolls over on his back, not wanting to be overly clingy. It takes a few more minutes before his breathing slows down and his thoughts start to make sense again, but it's enough time for the silence to have settled between them. It's not exactly uncomfortable, but John does not really know how he's supposed to start casual conversation after having shagged Sherlock bloody Holmes, and so instead he sits up with the intention of searching for a flannel to clean them up.

Before he can do anything, Sherlock grabs his arm. "Don't."

"We have to clean up this mess," he says. Sherlock opens his mouth, before closing it again, and turns on his side. John frowns. What the hell is going on? Is Sherlock regretting this?

Instead of standing up, he picks up his tee-shirt off the ground, and gently tugs at Sherlock's shoulder. "Can I?" he says, clearly asking permission to clean him himself.

Sherlock nods tightly, and John's stomach is already knotting with worries when finally Sherlock relaxes under his touch. Once they're both satisfyingly dry, he throws his shirt on the floor and leans back on one of the pillows. The bed had not been made when they first arrived in the bedroom, and now it's definitely worse.

Sherlock grabs one of the sheets and pulls it over his shoulder, back to John. "You can go, you know," he says, his voice hoarse.

John pops on his elbows. "What?!"

"No need to stay behind to _clean up the mess_."

"Oh my god." John throws his head back, biting his lower lip. One day he should actually start to _think_ before talking. "Sherlock, I didn't mean it like—"

"I know perfectly well what you meant," Sherlock snaps, standing up wrapped in his sheet. "If you won't leave you can sleep in the bed, I'll go upstairs."

"Sherlock! I swear that's not—" but Sherlock is already down the corridor, and John cannot believe that of all moments he had to choose this one to mess things up. Seriously! He knew that they had to talk about everything first. God. He needs a plan, quickly. "Sherlock, come back, I have something to tell you."

"What?"

"You need to come here first."

"Right, no thank you. I can hear you perfectly well from here."

"No, you actually need to come here under the sheets."

"And why is that, exactly?"

"'Cause it's a secret."

Sherlock snorts. John smiles, still on the bed, before he rolls under the duvet, holding it with one hand is if it were a tent.

"C'mere, I'm waiting."

There's a moment of silence, then, John hears footsteps from down the hallway, going towards the bedroom. If something can never be satisfied, it's Sherlock curiosity.

There's a dip in the mattress and soon enough Sherlock joins him under the duvet, which John lets fall over both of their heads. It takes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but once he does, John notices that Sherlock still looks crossed and tense.

"What is it?"

"Give me a moment. First, can I kiss you?"

Sherlock nods, his eyes glowing straight away to John's lips. It's good that he is still on post-sex hormones, John thinks, because there is no way in Hell that could have worked under any other circumstances. He cradles Sherlock's cheek with one hand, and leans in to kiss him, more softly than they ever had done this evening.

Sherlock seems to relax a bit after that, letting John creep in closer, thumb still circling on his temple, over the sweat-slicked dark curls.

"So, what is it?" Sherlock asks again, and John chuckles.

"Impatient, as ever." Okay, if he delays it any longer, he might be the first to experience death by raging consulting detective. "The truth is, Sherlock, that I really, _really_ like you."

"Obvious."

"I'm not done yet!" John says, kissing Sherlock's nose. "So, as I was saying, I like you. A lot. And I think that you do to. Like me, that is. That you like me— I mean I don't want to assume anything wrong but—"

"You're not."

"Good. So that's settled. Good. And I what about the mess, I literally meant cleaning us up." Sherlock's lips curl into a silent _oh_. Why is Sherlock so convinced that this won't work? John wants to ask him, but after all, maybe it's not a question for now. He has other things to explain. "Now that you're listening to me, I wanted to apologize for what happened with Mary." Sherlock tenses up, but John doesn't remove his hand. "As you probably know already, because even though you don't read my messages that doesn't stop you from being a mad genius, Mary is a lesbian. We went out maybe two or three times at the beginning of uni, and after a rather… unfortunate accident, she realized that blokes were really not her area. Since her parents are particularly homophobic and since we were kind of already going out and I wasn't dating anyone else at the time, I accepted to be her beard. It went on for one year, well, actually two, but I wasn't aware that we were apparently still together until that day two weeks ago. And I'm really sorry about that night: she needed my help one last time and I tried to make it back to the lab later but you weren't there anymore."

"I left early that day."

"And I tried to apologize over and over again but you weren't answering and it was driving me absolutely mad since, well, as you know, I like you. I like going to the lab with you. I like talking and texting with you. I like kissing you and I like what we just did and I hope you don't regret it—"

"I don't."

"—because me neither. I swear I'm not going out with Mary nor interested in anyone else, and maybe I wasn't obvious enough but I _was_ flirting with you, you know. From the start."

Sherlock hums a neutral sound.

"And seeing you leave, earlier today— seeing you leave with that absolute wanker was maddening. God, if he had done anything to you—"

"He didn't."

"I know, I know, but if he _did_ … Truth is I don't want you to leave pubs with anybody but me, Sherlock, and I don't want this to be a one-night stand either because I care about you, and I was wondering if you'd be… You know." Sherlock's eyebrow springs up. "You know, my—"

"Date."

"Boyfriend."

Sherlock blinks. John wants to slap himself (He. Did. It. Again!).

"Err—sorry, it's just that I thought, you know, that maybe we were past this point but yes, yes, you can be my date, of course."

"I'm your… _boyfriend_?" More blinking. Has John broken him?

"I mean, only if you want to be, then yes. We probably won't be able to, you know, advertise, because my Dad still doesn't know, and neither do the rugby blokes, but around friends or at uni… If you want to."

"I thought that society's standards demanded several months of dating before pursuing any kind of romantic entanglement."

John rolls his eyes and chuckles. "You, of all people, should know that's crap. We can count our lab sessions as dates. And we'll go on some more, for sure. I don't want to wait. Do you want to wait?"

"No. Rules are boring. People are stupid."

"That's usually my line."

Sherlock grins. "I have something to say, too."

"Go ahead."

"I—, well, I—" Sherlock breathes in. "I must say that I quite underestimated the size of your penis."

They stare at each other for a few seconds before erupting in giggles, kicking the cover from over their heads to get some fresh air at last. John swings his arm around Sherlock's sides and kisses him, and it's full of teeth because they're still laughing, high on endorphins.

"Well thank you, I guess? C'mere," John says, once they have calmed down enough, and Sherlock crawls in his arm, settling a leg between John's, and yawns. Finally, Sherlock doesn't seem averse to cuddling.

"Sleepy?"

Sherlock shakes his head, but John knows that both of them are not far from dozing off.

A few minutes later, Sherlock's sleepy voice whispers, "Does that mean that we are, hmmm, how do they say, exclusive?"

John kisses the top of his head. "Very much so. If you want to."

"I want to."

"Good."

Soon enough, the bedroom fills with Sherlock's soft snoring. John feels comfortable, sated and happy, even though his arm is going a bit numb under Sherlock's head. Too bad: he'll amputate in the morning, he jokes internally, smiling to himself.

He notices a crack of light at the end of the hallway, and footsteps. His vision tries to focus on the silhouette coming in their direction: Irene. They're mostly covered, and comfortable — John wouldn't move even if a earthquake was happening at the moment. Irene only pops her head into the bedroom, sees John, smiles and holds a thumb up. He winks in return, careful not to move too much to wake Sherlock. She closes the door softly, and a minute after that, the last light goes out from under the door.

John turns his head, nose rubbing against Sherlock's head and messy curls. He wonders a bit why Sherlock deflected what he wanted to say earlier, but maybe he was right. Maybe it's still too early.

They sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally the tags are updated and the chapter counter stops at 30: if it varies, it will most certainly go up, I'm still not sure! But there will be definitely not less than thirty chapters. :) As always, thank you for reading. <3


	23. A llama?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm so sorry for the delay! I'm not entirely happy with this chapter for a reason I can't pinpoint, but since it seems I don't even know what to fix I'm putting it out there in the hope that you'll still enjoy it!
> 
> If smut is not for you, skip the part between the two first breaks in paragraphs!

The llama gets away before he can get a proper wool sample, which frustrates him to no end. He tries to run up to it, grabbing one of its ears to make it stop running, but his fingers only close on dry human skin. The llama starts fighting back, its hooves replaced by hands, and Sherlock can do nothing but kick back with full force. "Go away, you stink," he mutters.

"Charming," a voice replies.

John's.

_??????????????????????????_

For a moment, Sherlock thinks that Irene has invaded his bed again. The only problem being that Irene does not have John's voice, or, clearly, male anatomy. So, what kind of dream _is_ he in?

He reluctantly opens his eyes, and when he discerns John's naked silhouette, blond hair and blue eyes, he finally remembers about last night. Sherlock frowns, and John lets go of both his wrists. He may or may not have been fighting him this whole time.

"Good morning to you too," John says, rolling on his back and stretching his shoulders. ( _Spend the night here, went to the bathroom once, slept well, in good mood._ ) "You talk in your sleep, did you know that?"

"I _do not_." He would know, obviously, if he did.

"Hmmm— you do. Never thought I'd have to use self-defense in my sleep." Ah. He must be referencing the kicking.

"Sorry," Sherlock offers plainly, still not fully convinced about the talking part.

He is not entirely sure about what he is supposed to do now, nor what the morning-after etiquette is — not that he cares that much, but he does not want to scare John away, not after having worked through their first fight. He had forgiven him about Mary, last night, without officially saying so, yet he knows that both of them understand the issue and the fight is past them. Not that Sherlock feels completely relieved of his anger and worries, like he showed (embarrassingly enough) during the night by misreading John's intentions, but he could never admit that he lacks the confidence his partner so obviously has. John would only laugh.

As if on cue, John pops on his elbows, rolls on his belly and pins Sherlock on the mattress between both his hands. In broad morning-light he looks even more real, and absolutely stunning, with his messy hair, sleepy eyes and smug grin. And his muscles— those arms…

Of course John looks real, Sherlock snaps himself out of his reverie — he _is_ real. He still has no idea why John has chosen him, of all people, except that he highly doubts John's rationality had any input in that decision. The thought that seemed comforting now only proves that John probably had no saying in his choice. He would definitely be better off with anybody else.

On that, John lowers his face and kisses him. It's so easy to melt right away in his touch, even though Sherlock is fairly sure his own kissing technique is rubbish, and he _loathes_ not being good at something, but John doesn't seem to mind. Not at all.

After a few seconds, Sherlock turns his head on the side. "God, you taste like a three-days old cigarette left in the rain," he says, his nose wrinkling.

John laughs. "Charming," he repeats. "Morning breath does that to you. The real question being how on Earth did you ever smoke a three-day old cigarette left in the rain." Sherlock rolls his eyes and tries to wiggle his way out from underneath John, only to be held down by one of his hands. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

"To take a shower. Obviously."

"Nope, I have another idea. A plan, actually."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirks up. He really can't resist John's grin, especially when it's twenty centimeters above his own face. "A plan?"

"Yes. We'll go shower in half-an-hour, eat breakfast, hang around a bit, then I'll have to take the car back to Harry, go back home, and I guess I'll spend the rest of the day between studying urology and texting you."

"Do you often mention urology to your boyfriends while in bed with them?"

"Only to the ones I bring on dates in the anatomy lab."

Sherlock grabs the back of John's neck, bringing him closer for a kiss before remembering about the morning breath. Instead, he lands his lips on the corner of John's mouth, which makes him chuckle. John lowers himself on his elbows until he's lying on top of Sherlock, hands messing with his curls, kissing back quick pecks on his mouth and jaw. Sherlock had thought that the nakedness would be awkward, but in fact it only seems natural now, as if they knew each other in that way for months, as if John has the power to make him comfortable in any situation involving him. As irrational as that sounds, Sherlock believes it.

"Why half-an-hour?" Sherlock asks, even though he already knows the answer. He is a bit out of breath, both hands in John's hair who is kissing his throat, feeling the hardness of John's morning wood against his hip.

John lifts his head. "So we can have amazing lazy morning sex first."

"It sounds like quite the calculated plan, if only you came to the logical conclusion to allow us two minutes in the bathroom," Sherlock says, although sounding more curious than annoyed.

John smiles, slowly sliding down Sherlock's body. "Good thing what I'm thinking of doesn't involve much kissing, then," he says with a smug grin.

 

Sherlock's heart jumps in his chest the second he understands John's intention, and the only thought of John giving him a blowjob — on putting his mouth _there, on him_ — brings him already dangerously close to the edge. He swallows hard the moment John takes him in hand, giving him a few strokes. He is already so hard: he's not going to last.

"All right?" John asks with his usual imperturbable confidence, as if he has done this hundreds of times, which is false, of course — Sherlock has deduced that much, and that's exactly why he did not think John would be willing to perform this particular act on him.

He nods, lifting his head to look at John more properly. Not only does he seem to be willing to, he seems to actively want to. Sherlock has no idea what on Earth he has done to deserve this, especially since he never thought that anybody would be interested in—

"Fuck," he mutters, his head falling back on the mattress in a spasm, the second John's tongue touches him.

Unlike the night before, Sherlock can't keep quiet this time even though he tries biting his lip. He definitely cannot look at John right now, or this might be over way too soon. Instead, he swings an arm around his eyes, and instinctively fists his other hand in the sheets.

The moment John takes him in his mouth he digs his heels into the mattress. As he does, he feels one of John's strong arms hold him at the hips, preventing him from bucking right into his throat, and that's for the best because Sherlock feels that he might lose his sanity soon enough.

It feels like nothing else Sherlock has experienced before, with the warmth of John's mouth around him, the velvet of his tongue caressing the underside of his cock. He is vaguely aware that he is babbling nonsense, something like _dear God this is how I want to die_ , which makes John huff and hum around him, and he can feel it rippling through all of his body. Sherlock lifts his head — if he doesn't look at John right now he _might_ just die — and it doesn't matter that this started not even a minute ago, because the stunning image of John looking right back with his lips stretched around him sends Sherlock right into another dimension as he spends himself down John's throat.

It takes a few moments before he comes back to his senses, instinctively reaching for John and scrambling to his knees to kiss him properly, not minding at all the morning breath now tampered with the taste of his own cum, which is excessively more appealing that he originally thought it would be.

It's only then that Sherlock realizes that he should probably have warned John about his impending orgasm, and once again, he mentally scolds himself for his lack of experience.

"Sorry, sorry," he mutters into the kiss, but before he can move away, John holds him there.

"'S fine, I wanted to do that for _ages_."

Sherlock's chest might burst in a way that he never experienced before. He stares at John, holding the sides of his head, unsure if this is all for real.

John chuckles, and it takes that much to convince Sherlock.

"You, now," he whispers, clumsily leaning down on John's body.

"You really don't have to—"

"I want to."

John's cheeks actually flush, mutters something of an agreement, and leans back on his elbows.

If Sherlock never let himself dream of John Watson performing fellatio on him, thinking about the contrary was certainly a fantasy he had indulged in more than once.

 

 

"I wish to make an amendment to the plan," Sherlock says, once they are laying on their sides, face-to-face, as he dreamily squeezes one of John's biceps.

"Hhm?"

"You could spend the day here instead."

John smiles and wiggles closer to him. "I'd love to, but I have a test on Wednesday."

"Study here."

"I don't have my laptop, nor my books."

It's Sherlock's turn to smile. "Texted Irene yesterday, she stopped by your flat and Mike prepared a bag with the books you'll need. And some clothes."

"I still have to drive the car back to Harry's."

"I found her on Facebook, she picked up the car this morning with her spare keys. Along with giving you her congratulations, apparently." Now John surely has no reason to leave him today. Unless he wants to, Sherlock thinks bitterly.

"Is there anybody that doesn't know where I was and what was I doing last night?"

"I'm afraid not."

For a second, Sherlock thinks that John may be mad at him, at texting his friends and family when they were driving back to Baker Street last night, doing some last minute arrangements. He was glad at the time that everything worked out in order, but now he wonders if he has violated John's privacy.

Instead John laughs, sliding one of his arms down Sherlock's back. "You're _insane_. And amazing."

Sherlock doesn't even bother answering to that.

"Oh, you don't believe me?" Before he can do anything, his vision is obstructed by a human masstackling him on his back with high speed. "Look at me, Holmes," John says with a playful growl, "you better start believing me, because I'm _always_ right."

Sherlock wonders how John makes stupidity so endearing. "I know," he replies, rolling his eyes, "and it's frustrating."

He doesn't add that it will be the only time he will say so out loud, but John's smile is worth the prize — as is the snogging that follows.

They roll around on the bed, Sherlock wondering if there will be a moment in his life when he will not want to touch, and hold and kiss John all the time, because that seems so unbelievably impossible right now. He will _always_ want him.

Once John breaks the kiss in order to sustain his lungs with some oxygen, Sherlock rolls on his back, staring at the ceiling. "I don't know how to do this," he says, astonished at himself for how honest that statement is.

"It seems like you definitely knew what you were doing just minutes ago," John says cheekily.

He turns his head. "John."

"Sorry— err, sorry."

"I mean I've never— I've never done this before. Any of it." A part of him wishes to shut up immediately, but the other is telling him that it's _John_. If someone can understand, surely it must be him.

"Sherlock— I know." It seems that John has regained seriousness, but Sherlock can't help but frown. Has he been so transparent? 

"Sorry I didn't last longer."

John must have caught the bitterness in his voice, because a moment later he is on his elbows. "Oi! Don't give me that! I wasn't even talking about sex. Honestly, if you want to know…" He pauses and sighs, ruffling his hands through his hair. "I didn't last even that long my first time. Came in my pants before anything started."

Sherlock smiles. It's not something that he had bothered to deduce already, but it seems so unlike John.

"Yeah, it wasn't my most glorious moment. Listen, I know you haven't done any of it — sex, _and_ relationships — but, I mean… we're _good_. We'll be fine. And new stuff is good too, I sure as hell had never given head to anyone before this morning, so you're not the only one learning around here. And I should tell you I'm not exactly the best at serious relationship, honestly, I've spend the last two years of my life pretending I was dating a lesbian. Not a great pick up line at pubs."

"Did you just imply that we're serious?"

"God— I know it sounds crazy—"

"It doesn't."

"—but yeah, I think so. We've been friends for over a month, and I don't know if it's the same for you but I've never met anyone like you—"

"John."

"And that definitely sounds crazy but in a month you've managed to become my best friend and my boyfriend and I know it sounds terribly fast but—"

"John."

"—even if we've been through some complicated shit, talking to you, being around you is the easiest thing ever. So yeah, of course I don't want it to stop, and of course I intend this to be serious. I don't know if—"

"John."

"Yeah?"

John is nervous. Sherlock doesn't know how he has not seen it before but John, confident-John is actually nervous about this. About _him_. Sherlock wiggles closer and smiles in the crook of John's neck. "It's the same for me."

Without even looking, he knows that John smiles back.

 

They get out of bed after another half-hour of lying around, paddling to the bathroom, brushing their teeth ("Finally," Sherlock hisses, before John snogs him against the sink with his fresh and minty breath), and having another go in the shower. Sherlock spends an additional half-an-hour drying and combing his hair, and when he finally gets out of the bathroom, John greets him in the kitchen with toast and honey, probably the two only products that are still safe to eat at 221b.

John asks about his current experiment, which is taking more than half of the space on the table, and Sherlock proceeds to explain how he is currently analyzing different types of ashes: he has done thirty-three at the moment, but hopes to have achieved four-hundred by the end of the year.

"That's more than one per day!"

"I usually do five per night. Four-hundred is nothing."

"Do you even sleep? You really _are_ a genius," John replies after a bite of his toast, and Sherlock turns away, pretending to fiddle with the coffee machine for as long as it will take for the heath to stop invading his cheeks without his permission.

After eating, John settles down on the sofa with his laptop, and Sherlock returns to his experiment. They work silently for most of the morning, before Sherlock joins him on the sofa, pretending to read on his phone while in fact being constantly distracted by John's presence beside him.

Reading on the sofa turns into kissing and groping each other fairly quickly, and that's when Mrs. Hudson decides to barge in the flat with a tray of tea and what seems to be two generous servings of hot spaghetti.

Both of them stop moving, as if it would render them entirely invisible to the human eye.

"Who's that?" John whispers to Sherlock's ear.

"The landlady."

"Don't mind me, boys," Mrs. Hudson replies, sweeping her hands over her apron, "but I miscalculated the pasta and ended up with way too much food for one person," she adds in an obvious lie to make them at least eat some proper food, before closing the door behind her.

They eat. They study. They experiment. At some point Sherlock tries to cancel his cards (his wallet still being somewhere in Victor's car, if he has not discovered it already), but John asks him to wait, that maybe Victor would be amenable to give it back and act like an adult for one time in his life.

Upon discovering that Sherlock has never watched a James Bond, they settle down in front of the TV with Chinese takeaway, just as it's getting dark, and Sherlock enjoys the movie as it is a good excuse to snuggle closer to John, even though the plot is only mildly interesting, but internally plays at deducing which actors in the movie John likes best. The one that plays the protagonist rates high, going by John's subconscious physical responses.

It's half-past-ten when they finish the second movie.

"I really have to go, now," John says, punctuating the sentence with a kiss. "I'll text you, okay?"

Sherlock hums, trying to act casual. God, tonight will be boring.

"Tomorrow's Monday."

"Incredible reasoning, John."

"You know, I could be wrong but I _heard_ that the rugby team still jogs by the science building on Monday mornings. See you then."

John bids him goodbye with a wink. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was another happy domestic chapter for you! (I'm still making up for all the earlier angst hahaha). Honestly I still doubt my capacity at writing smut so I hope that this wasn't too bad. Blowjobs are definitely the hardest to write.
> 
> Next update should arrive closer to the usual updating time (3-4 days) than this one did. Sorry again!


	24. John won't be joining us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention everyone: we're going a bit back in time, the group conversation starts the night of the Queer event at the uni's pub, the Lion's Mane, and we go through Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. :) And it's cracky. Fully assumed, now.

**Useless queers + Greg + Molly (132 new messages)**

________________00:32___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** Heeeey!

 

________________00:51___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** Okay…

 

________________01:01___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** Oh sorry, this is clearly the wrong chat.

 **Staaamfooord:** My mistake, I never wanted to join the hand-amputated group for people who can't type.

 **Staaamfooord:** I'm fine, by the way, since you all want to know. Dropped Stella at her flat earlier. She was complaining a bit but I'm sure as you all remember, we have a study session tomorrow morning for uro so I said that I'd be better off with a good night of sleep.

 **Staaamfooord:** As we all should. Of course.

 

________________01:26___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** Okay, Mary, your girlfriend came by to collect some of John's stuff. She says that's she'll be back soon.

 **Bloody Mary:** Thanks! xoxoxoxo (also, not my girlfriend!!)

 **Staaamfooord:** You're awfully nice when drunk, dear.

 

________________01:43___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** Wait.

 **Staaamfooord:** So as Greg told us, John is over at Sherlock's. Apparently that worked out. Somehow. I might have missed that part of the night.

 **Staaamfooord:** Irene's returning at Mary's place.

 **Staaamfooord:** But John has the car. Wasn't he supposed to take Greg home?

 **Staaamfooord:** Unless… That's why Molly came by the pub!

 **Staaamfooord:** …

 **Staaamfooord:** Oh bloody hell.

 **Staaamfooord:** Are you fucking kidding me?

 **Staaamfooord:** Is EVERYONE but me getting laid right now???

 

________________01:58___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** I feel so cheated on.

 **Staaamfooord:** Goodnight. Try AT LEAST to get some sleep.

 

________________09:38___________________

 **Staaamfooord:** It's past 9:30 guys.

 **Staaamfooord:** All aloooone at the libraryyyy.

 **Staaamfooord:** I bloody hate you all.

 

________________10:03___________________

 **Bloody Mary:** Sorry Mike! I should be there in 20.

 **Staaamfooord:** A sign of life!

 **Staaamfooord:** If only the others knew how to check their phones.

 **Bloody Mary:** Oh come on, give the lovebirds a few minutes.

 **Staaamfooord:** Are you talking about Greg and Molly, or John?

 **Bloody Mary:** All of them, actually. Although I'd be curious to know how it went.

 **Bloody Mary:** And come on, Molly doesn't need any more studying. Not so sure about John, but apparently he's got his books over at Stitch-Guy's.

 **Staaamfooord:** Right. Because there will be much studying done.

 **Geoffrey:** One can learn a lot about urology in the right situation, Mike. ;)

 **Bloody Mary:** Did you just make the most crass sous-entendu joke about frickin urology…?

 **Geoffrey:** Oh come on, everybody was thinking the same thing.

 **Staaamfooord:** Actually, no.

 **Geoffrey:** Damn.

 **Molls:** Anyway, what Greg initially wanted to tell you is that I'll be there in half-an-hour.

 **Bloody Mary:** Molly! Calling you right now, you need to tell me!

 **Staaamfooord:** Good! Will Mr. _@Grumpy Bi_ show himself at some point?

 

________________11:24___________________

 **Bloody Mary:** Yeah, I don't think John will be joining us, Mike.

 

 

 

**Genius Detective**

________________23:04___________________

 **John:** Just got home. Everything all right?

 **Genius Detective:** Bored.

 **John:** Of course. It's your turn to play, by the way.

_(Words With Friends) Genius Detective just played BORED for 8 points._

**John:** Of course you'd have the letters for that. Jesus.

_John named the conversation: Bored Boyfriend_

**Genius Detective:** Seriously?

_Genius Detective named the conversation: John_

**John:** Again, your imagination amazes me.

 **Genius Detective:** It's your turn to play.

 **John:** I only have shit letters.

_(Words With Friends) John just played ON for 2 points._

**Genius Detective:** You're losing.

 **John:** If you correctly recall, I wasn't the one losing at chess. Before we changed the game in your favor. :P

_Genius Detective named the conversation: The Annoying One_

_John named the conversation:_ ♥♥♥  _Sweetheart_ ♥♥♥

 **Genius Detective:** Dear God.

 **John:** You brought that on yourself.

_(Words With Friends) Genius Detective just played NO for 2 points._

_(Words With Friends) Genius Detective wins. (102 — 89)_

**Genius Detective:** There.

 **Genius Detective:** Still bored.

 _John named the conversation:_ ♥♥♥ _Eternally Bored Sweetheart_ ♥♥♥

_Genius Detective named the conversation: Baby Cakes_

**Genius Detective:** Two can play at this game.

 **John:** Oh my god. You totally got that from Internet.

 _John named the conversation:_ ♥♥♥ _Dearest Sexy Pants_ ♥♥♥

_Genius Detective named the conversation: Pudding_

**Genius Detective:** Now, that I do not understand. How would anybody want to be associated with pudding?

 _John named the conversation:_ ♥♥♥ _Confused Sugar Pie_ ♥♥♥

 **Genius Detective:** I am not confused. This is ridiculous!

 **John:** You're right, you need a pet name that's more like yourself. Something science-y.

 _John named the conversation:_ ♥♥♥ _My Adorable Little Einstein_ ♥♥♥

 **Genius Detective:** Nope.

 **Genius Detective:** That I refuse.

 **Genius Detective:** And I am a chemist.

 **Genius Detective:** And not adorable.

 **Genius Detective:** Nor little?

 **Genius Detective:** John?

 **John:** Sorry, Mike wanted something.

 _John named the conversation:_ ♥♡♥♡♥ _My Little Proton_ ♥♡♥♡♥

 **Genius Detective:** …

 **John:** No, you're right.

 **Genius Detective:** Thank you. Can we return to a sensible conversation?

 **John:** That's too positive.

 _John named the conversation:_ ♥♡♥♡♥ _My Little Electron_ ♥♡♥♡♥

 **Genius Detective:** Suit yourself. Also, worst pun in the history of these coincidental jokes that makes people feel clever and funny. 

 **John:** Oh, a change of tactics! Hoping that the lack of reaction will make lose interest?

 **Genius Detective:** Obviously not.

 **John:** In the ironic-pet-names game, not you, silly.

 **Genius Detective:** Oh.

 **John:** ;)

 **Genius Detective:** What?

 **John:** Nothing, I like to tease you, that's all.

 **Genius Detective:** Ah. That's… good?

 **John:** 'course! I have to go now, it's getting late and I still have to read some stuff before bed.

 **Genius Detective:** I'm still bored.

 **John:** Don't you have that ash experiment running?

 **Genius Detective:** No. There's too much humidity today, and I can't add another variable into the calculations.

 **John:** Mmmh, I see. Practice your stitches, then. :P

 **John:** Really have to go. See you tomorrow.

 **John:** Night xx

 **Genius Detective:** Don't.

 **Genius Detective:** I'm bored.

 **John:** I miss you too.

 **John:** Goodnight, Sherlock.

 

________________2:57___________________

_Genius Detective named the conversation: The Bearably Annoying One_

 

 

 

**Useless queers + Greg + Molly (561 new messages)**

________________23:06___________________

 **Grumpy Bi:** Jesus. You sure do talk a lot.

 **Molls:** John!!!

 **Grumpy Bi:** You're correct.

 **Geoffrey:** Congrats, man!

 **Molls:** Oh please stop being like that and tell us already! We're dying over here!!

 **Grumpy Bi:** What do you want to know?

 **Bloody Mary:** When's the wedding?

 **Staaamfooord:** What's it like to snog a detective?

 **Geoffrey:** Enjoyed loosing your man-virginity?

 **Molls:** Gregory!

 **Grumpy Bi:** Honestly, Greg, man-virginity? That doesn't even mean what you're trying to say.

 **Geoffrey:** You know damn well what I mean, Watson. And sorry, Molls.

 **Grumpy Bi:** Can't a bloke have a bit of privacy around here?

 **Bloody Mary:** Well, everybody, that's the first time Three Continents Watson goes shy on us! To think we had to suffer through countless recounting about each woman you've ever met and now you won't tell us a thing.

 **Grumpy Bi:** Fine. Fine.

 **Grumpy Bi:** 1\. There's none planned at the moment. 2. Pretty amazing, thank you very much. 3. Fuck yeah.

 **Bloody Mary:** Aaah! Good boy!

 **Geoffrey:** Again, congratulations. ;)

 **Molls:** Aaaw!!

 **Staaamfooord:** John actually dating a bloke, I thought the day would never come! So I'll be seeing a lot less of you around, probably.

 **Grumpy Bi:** Actually… we're not dating.

 **Bloody Mary:** Oh come on John, fuck buddies? So unlike you.

 **Grumpy Bi:** Uh, it's kinda the other way around.

 **Geoffrey:** What?

 **Staaamfooord:** No!!!! Oh my god! Seriously?!

 **Grumpy Bi:** Yep.

 **Molls:** Oooh!! So happy for you, John!

 **Grumpy Bi:** Thanks. :-)

 **Geoffrey:** What the hell did I miss?

 **Grumpy Bi:** We're kind of together.

 **Bloody Mary:** Kind of?

 **Grumpy Bi:** We're together.

 **Staaamfooord:** Already?!

 **Grumpy Bi:** Yep. We decided to skip the dating part. I mean, we'll still go on dates, and everything, but yeah, we're together.

 **Geoffrey:** What a cute couple of thirteen years-old you make. ;)

 **Molls:** I think that's amazing! And you'll have to present him to us, you know, officially.

 **Bloody Mary:** I thought you didn't like him, at the lab, Molly?

 **Molls:** Well John had stood him up, so I can get the frustration, especially now. Although he was a bit unnecessary rude. But he's John's boyfriend now, come on, it's the Rule!

 **Grumpy Bi:** He really is.

 **Staaamfooord:** John, I can see you grinning over your textbook. And we'll have to talk later.

 **Molls:** You'll tell us?

 **Staaamfooord:** Everything. ;)

 **Grumpy Bi:** Okay, apart from that, I have to tell you that we're not exactly official. We agreed to tell you, but you know, with the shit in my family and all that, we're keeping it down a bit.

 **Grumpy Bi:** And I don't think he'd be interested in meeting you all. He's kind of… well, you know already. And you're all… you, too, I guess.

 **Molls:** Ooh, but we'll be nice and proper and everything!

 **Grumpy Bi:** I don't doubt you will, Molls, but I do worry about everyone else. And I don't think he likes Mary a lot.

 **Bloody Mary:** Hey, it's because he hasn't met me!

 **Geoffrey:** Or is it…?

 **Bloody Mary:** Shut it, Geoffrey!

 **Geoffrey:** Anyway. He knows me already.

 **Staaamfooord:** Me too. I'm in.

 **Molls:** Also me.

 **Grumpy Bi:** @Bloody Mary?

 **Bloody Mary:** Yeah, yeah, I'll do my best. For the Rule and all.

 **Grumpy Bi:** Good. Thanks. I'll have to go now, I start early tomorrow.

 **Molls:** Goodnight John!

 **Bloody Mary:** G'night.

 **Geoffrey:** Night!

 **Staaamfooord:** Night.

 **Staaamfooord:** Aaah. I might follow soon.

 **Geoffrey:** Now that he's gone, let's get to the interesting stuff. I'm taking bets:

 **Geoffrey:** Who tops?

 

 

 

♥♡♥♡♥ _My Little Electron_ ♥♡♥♡♥

________________13:26___________________

 **John:** Hey! Everything's all right?

 **Genius Detective:** Yes. Fine. You?

 **John:** Still studying every damned inch of that textbook but I'm getting there.

 **Genius Detective:** Exams are boring.

 **John:** Couldn't agree more, but I still have to pass my classes. And you know, learn.

 **John:** Did you see us this morning?

 **Genius Detective:** Fifteen men dressed in red doing squats in front of the chemistry labs is not an occurrence one simply misses, John.

 **John:** Mmh, yes, I thought it would be interesting to add a bit of muscle-building throughout the jog.

 **Genius Detective:** Excellent decision, Captain.

 **John:** ;)

 **Genius Detective:** Did you just emoji-wink at me? Again?

 **John:** I did, actually.

 **Genius Detective:** When are you done with class?

 **John:** Oh… The thing is that I have class until five, then I've got rugby practice, and a study session with Mike at our place, later.

 **Genius Detective:** I see.

 **John:** Sorry, Sherlock. I'd really like to see you today but that won't be possible…

 **Genius Detective:** It's fine. I'm working on my experiment anyway.

 **John:** Good luck with that. xxx I have to go right now, but I'll text you, okay?

 

 

________________00:22___________________

 **John:** Mmh, was thinking bout you.

 **Genius Detective:** Good, I guess?

 **John:** Yep.

 **John:** Mike says hello, by the way.

 **Genius Detective:** Right. Hello, Stamford.

 **John:** He's not here anmore, silly.

 **Genius Detective:** Ah. Good.

 **John:** Oh god, you're so jealous of him.

 **Genius Detective:** Am not.

 **John:** He's my very straight flatmate, Sherlock, and also in a relationshp for two years now, nothing to worry about.

 **John:** About anybody.

 **Genius Detective:** If you say so.

 **John:** I say so.

 **Genius Detective:** You could do a lot more interesting than Stamford, anyway.

 **John:** Sherlock! He's my friend. He's nice.

 **Genius Detective:** I didn't say he isn't nice, I said he isn't interesting.

 **John:** You know that some people actually dream to settle down with their job andfamily? Not running after criminals and identifying every single tpe of ash under the Sun?

 **Genius Detective:** As I said: dull.

 **John:** Yeah, I kindof agree.

 **John:** Let's not talk about mike right now. I'm in a good mood.

 **Genius Detective:** How so?

 **John:** As I said, Iwas thinking about you.

 **Genius Detective:** Oh.

 **John:** Quite.

 **Genius Detective:** You won't be long, then. Goodnight.

 **John:** Sweet dreams. Ill be having them. xxxxx

 

 

________________10:02___________________

 **Genius Detective:** I might have found another way to classify ash.

 **John:** Really?

 **Genius Detective:** Yes. I'll show you when you get here.

 **John:** About that…

 **John:** Shit. I'm really sorry, Sherlock, but I still got class all day and I have to study later.

 **John:** Sherlock?

 **Genius Detective:** You could study here.

 **John:** I think that would be too distracting.

 **Genius Detective:** It really wouldn't.

 **John:** Please, Sherlock, I just really need to have a good grade on this.

 **John:** How about I take you out, tomorrow night, when all that's done?

 **John:** Sherlock?

 **Genius Detective:** As in on a date?

 **John:** Yep.

 **Genius Detective:** Where?

 **John:** I heard the Lion's Mane is having a disco night. Would you like that?

 **Genius Detective:** Pubs? Really?

 **John:** Yeah, I know. But you like dancing, don't you?

 **Genius Detective:** You don't.

 **John:** I enjoy it when I have someone I like to dance with.

 **John:** What do you say?

 **Genius Detective:** Fine.

 **John:** Great! How about I pick you up? Say, at ten?

 **Genius Detective:** No need, I'll get there myself.

 **John:** All right. See you then. xxx

 **Genius Detective:** Or sooner.

 **John:** Or sooner. :-)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really like to thank Arcwin for the pep-talk this week, and also everyone who comments, kudos or bookmarks this. You're the best! <3
> 
> Also, have you seen what happened to the chapter count?


	25. The lamp took one for the team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, again, my life has been a bit up and down this past week and just when I felt like writing again I got the flu. So sorry for any mistakes still in there! I hope you do enjoy the chapter! :)

 

Sherlock had decided that Tuesday were the worst, and the fact that he had not seen John in two days but only exchanged a few texts with him was definitely not helping. That's how he came to a clever plan, which is currently backfiring on him because of a simple logistics mistake:

The fire escape is definitely higher than he has anticipated.

Sherlock knows he has the right address, and is fairly certain that the window above him, on the second floor, is John's. He does not wish to end up in Stamford's bed, no thank you.

After a few tries he finally jumps high enough to reach the goddamn thing and pull it down properly. He climbs up to the second floor, locates the window. When he peeks inside, he doesn't see anything but darkness because of the stupid street light behind him, and has therefore no way to confirm that it's John's. He will have to go inside to see. Sighing, he works the window open (it's unlocked, good), and pushes gently, before letting his body slide inside and unto the floor.

Except that the floor arrives quicker under his feet that he estimated, and that is because the floor strangely resembles a desk.

And on the desk, there is a lamp, with a cord that wants to get to know Sherlock's left foot.

Then, there's a terribly loud noise.

And finally, the floor.

"Jesus fucking Christ what the bloody hell is— _Sherlock_?!"

The bright light that emanates from the corner of the room blinds him for a moment, but when Sherlock's eyes focus again, John is standing by his bed, in his pants and tee-shirt, holding the 5th edition of Gray's Anatomy for Students in a vaguely menacing way.

Sherlock grunts, trying to get back on his feet by untangling himself from the cord, which John helps him with after dropping the book on his nightstand.

"Jesus— are you all right?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock assures him, sitting on the floor and rubbing at his cheek (the one that met the hard surface first) with his palm.

John seems somewhere in between laughing or sighing (has he crossed a line?), which somehow ends up as a nervous giggle. "Did you climb the fire escape?"

"Obviously."

"You're insane," John mutters, but it sounds more like endearment than an actual rebuke, which proves to be true when John kisses him. He is still a bit sleepy, with puffy eyes and messed-up hair, and Sherlock likes him just like that.

"Mmmh— right, I'm going back to sleep," he says, breaking the kiss but staying close.

Sherlock shrugs. "As you wish. I didn't plan on waking you up."

"Okay. Let's pretend that that's not creepy at all." Again with the reprisal. Has Sherlock done something wrong? He can't see the breach in his logic: if John can't come to him, he has to go to John. Simple, really.

The time it takes to formulate the thought John is already lying back on his bed, under the covers, turning on his side and turning the light off. Sherlock is not sure what exactly he is supposed to do now. Is John mad at him? Will his results at tomorrow's exam be compromised because of him waking up in the middle of the night?

John's hoarse voice echoes in the silent room. "Are you going to stand there all night?"

Oh. Sherlock stands up, and strips down to his pants, before sliding on the other side of the bed. From that angle, John's back seems to be the perfect invitation. He wonders if they would actually fit together, like this— oh. They do.

John recoils into his touch, pressing his back against Sherlock's chest, who curls up around him. That definitely feels good. He tries not to move, steadying his breath to be as slow and undisturbing as possible, and soon enough, John's regular breathing and total relaxation is proof that he is fast asleep.

Knowing that he won't fall asleep (and he has no intention to do so), Sherlock quietly plays deductions in his mind. John smells of shampoo and soap, and Sherlock estimates that he must have showered before going to sleep. The book on his nightstand means that he has studied until late, stressed with tomorrow's exam, for a reason Sherlock does not quite understand. The room is tiny, and not as tidy as he thought it would be (the rest of the flat is probably better on that aspect, which would be the exact opposite of his own), with clothes thrown on the chair, snickers lying around and a great amount of homework, books and notebooks on the desk and the floor around it, along with a few forgotten and empty cups of coffee. There's a poster of a band (Queen, he understands, since he's been doing some research since Saturday night) on the wall over John's shoulder, and another of a singer he doesn't know about (he will have to research it too, then). The closet is half-open, letting him discern an old family picture of two young children (John and his sister), his parents, and another person with white hair that seems to be a grandparent. Still emotionally attached to his family, then, or maybe an earlier version of it. Beside the window, just over the corner of a desk there's an acceptance letter pinned to the wall, and that alone makes Sherlock realize that John has worked ten thousand times harder than anyone else to be where he is today.

John Watson needs to pass his exam.

Sherlock considers for a moment getting up, opening the textbooks and laptop lying around, and deducing what exactly will be asked on the test, but before he does so, his eyes land again on the letter on the wall, and something tells him that John would most likely consider this as cheating. Fine, Sherlock grumbles to himself, letting his head fall again on the pillow, nose against the back of John's neck.

A few minutes later John rolls away from him and unto his back, and from then it's easier to look at him (but not touch, he really needs the most sleep he can get).

John looks peaceful in his sleep, nearly child-like, though the bit of stubble and the outline of his muscles remain absolute proof of the man he is. Sherlock likes John's arms, especially so, even though he has seen it all down to his abs, his glutes— no, his biceps are the loveliest, and Sherlock would rather die than admit how secure he felt when John had held him after sex.

That's still something his brain is trying to process, the fact that he had sex with John Watson, because if somebody would have told him that a month ago, he would have probably choked from laughter or hit them. He had always thought that sex would be something he simply would never experience, and was fine with that, until, well until John.

For once, Sherlock doesn't let his thoughts wander further. He's in John's bed, comfortable and happy, and that's all he needs for now.

He spends the next few hours looking at John, completely mesmerized with the sleeping silhouette, trying to match his breathing and (without success) his heartbeat. It's only when the sky turns grey that Sherlock gets out of the bed, silently dresses himself, replaces the lamp correctly on the desk, and leaves the way he came.

 

A few hours later, Sherlock's phone vibrates in his lab coat pocket. Intrigued, he opens it to see that he has received a picture from John, depicting a corridor corner not that far from here.

"Robert, sit here and watch this for me," he orders the scrawny kid beside him, pointing at his distillation montage.

"My name is John," Robert protests.

Sherlock gazes at him from head to toe. "No, it's not."

He doesn't bother waiting for an answer, and flees out from the lab, knowing perfectly well where he's supposed to go. It should be nearby, very near—

Sherlock swiftly turns a corner and is attacked by a human mass that grabs him by the sides of his lab coat and pushes him against the nearest wall.

"Hey you," John Watson says, sliding his hands on Sherlock's shoulder and kissing him right on the mouth, uncomfortably pressing Sherlock's lab goggles on his cheeks, but he couldn't care less about that right now. A bit surprised of this public display of affection, Sherlock hums into the kiss, his eyes looking from side to side, but no one seems to be in the hallway right now.

"Your exam's done. What are you doing here?"

"It is. And I wanted to see you, silly," John answers, punctuating his sentence by another kiss, teeth scraping a bit because he's smiling. Ah. The exam went well, then. "I'm on my way to my lab and I thought I could pop by."

Sherlock hums again. That most certainly explains why John is wearing blue scrubs and a stethoscope around his neck. He looks… professional.

John seems to have picked up on that. "You like it?" he asks, with a wink that makes Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mmh, have to say you're not so bad yourself in your lab coat and all."

Just as he finishes his sentence, both of them hear footsteps coming their way, and Sherlock recoils into the wall, John dropping his arms. The girl doesn't seem to notice them, walking at a fast pace and reading through her notebook. Once she's gone, John steps closer again.

"Are we still on for tonight?"

Sherlock nods. "Of course."

"Then you might need your cards," John says, putting something in Sherlock's hands. His wallet. The one that got lost in Trevor's car.

"How—"

John smiles. "I like to see you clueless like that. It's a rare sight."

Sherlock sighs, even though he can't completely hide his smile. "Just tell me."

"I messaged him and he kindly gave me your wallet back yesterday evening."

"You threatened him."

"Well no one _likes_ to have proof of kidnapping against them, surely."

Sherlock frowns. Against his will, John had gone and contacted Trevor, met with him and taken back Sherlock's wallet, something he could have done well enough by himself, without John's help. Is this how this is going to work, now? John constantly helping him as if he is some kind of damsel in distress?

Yet on the other hand, he remembers John saying that he _likes_ him. Is that what normal people do, care for each other in that way? If it were John in his situation, how would he have felt with that? Simple enough: Trevor would already be dead somewhere in a ditch.

"Thank you," he mutters, looking at his feet and putting the wallet back in his pocket.

"You're welcome. Listen, err, I guess that your lab finishes at 12? Would you like to eat with us at the cafeteria?"

" _Us_ being?"

"The usual suspects. Greg, Mike, Mary, Molly. Maybe Mike's girlfriend if she has time to join us. They'd really like to meet you, you know."

Ah, so they know. Well, that's not a surprise since John had already told him he didn't mind his closest friends knowing. But Sherlock isn't exactly good with people, and a lunch with John's friends (and ex, he reminds himself grimly) seems like the worst possible idea.

As if he can read his mind, John intercepts his thoughts. "You'll be fine. They promised to behave."

"They won't like me," Sherlock assures him. He really doesn't care, but that might be a deal-breaker for John.

"Too bad for them, then, 'cos I like you," he adds, kissing Sherlock one last time before he starts walking down the corridor. "See you later!"

Sherlock nods, making his way back to the lab, his mind in another place. He nearly doesn't mind when he sees that Robert has screwed up the distillation.

 

An hour later, lab coat packed away, Sherlock walks in the middle of the cafeteria, spotting the back of John's blond head across the vast sea of people. The man that was at the rugby matches (what's his name again, Lestrade?) is sitting on the other side of the table and sees him first.

"Hey!" he shouts, waving his hand. Great. As if more people need to notice him sitting down with a group of _people_.

The feeling vanishes entirely when John turns his head, smiling warmly, as he pulls back a chair towards him. Sherlock hums and sits down, aware that everybody around the table is staring at him. Right. He needs to behave. For John's sake, at least.

It's clear that his presence has stopped the previous conversation right in its tracks, and now nobody seems to know how to get it going again. The awkwardness is just what he needed, he sighs internally.

Stamford is the first to break the unnerving silence. "So, Sherlock, Stella's telling me the pharmacology lab teacher this year is a total bitch?"

"Well I can't say I'd be in a better mood if I had just learned that my husband was cheating on me with half of the department but that event unfortunately didn't seem to have any impact on her brain cells growth at all."

It's only when he's stopped talking that he realizes what he has just said. _My husband_. That's it for being subtle. Yet it seems that nobody really clings on that part: Lestrade mutters a half-silent "wow", and both Stamford and John chuckle a bit.

"Yeah, I heard she's pretty awful," Stamford continues. "Still not as bad as Mr. _Yes, No, Maybe?_ from first year — I don't think that you chemistry guys got him, but, oh my God, I'm so glad I changed for med."

"Aw, I'm glad that you did too, Mike," Hooper says on what Sherlock finds to be a annoying high-pitched tone, only for Mike to bump his fist on her shoulder in a friendly fashion.

"Wait," Mary interrupts, slamming her hand on the table, "is that what you call Mr. Lancaster? I had to work with that old dick all summer last year. His research was the most boring thing ever, I'm sure that—"

Sherlock doesn't bother listening to Mary's ranting, as her friends start to pitch in and discuss with a flow of endearing terms which one of their teachers is the worst. Instead, he stays silent, and stares at an invisible point on the table, thinking about each person sitting around him.

Apart from Mary, he has already met them all, he surprises himself, and that fact alone makes it slightly more bearable.

He has met Stamford first, last year, as the pharmacology and chemistry program shared their first organic chemistry class. At the time Stamford was the only one who ever spoke to him, his voice more high-pitched than it is now and with the unusual quality of actually producing intelligent sentences. John was right to say that some people want — deserve quiet and average family lives, and Stamford doesn't seem to be an exception of that, even though Sherlock doesn't understand it.

Then there was Lestrade, of course, at the rugby matches, who seemed highly interested in Sherlock's detective work, but who now, on the other side of the table, looks dangerously near a mental breakdown because of law school. After a quick look, Sherlock deduces that Lestrade has not told his parents about the police school idea, but is considering it. Sherlock is certain that that would suit him best, and, well, he's rarely wrong.

At his side there's Hooper, who he has met at the lab, _that_ time, and still every time he looks at her she blushes and looks away, even though she's holding hands with Lestrade (indicates romantic relationship, fairly new since she was still celibate that time at the lab). Sherlock wishes that she would be able to control herself a bit more, she's so obvious and readable that it makes him more than slightly uncomfortable. Is everyone just pretending it's not happening?

Just as his attention shifts on Mary, Sherlock feels John, balancing on the two back legs of his chair, tugging the corner of his coat pocket (where his hand is currently in) with his index. "You hungry?" he asks in a whisper, close to Sherlock's ear.

He shakes his head and John reclines back against his chair, but slips his hand further in the pocket to hold unto Sherlock's, before coming back to the conversation as if nothing had happened. Sherlock holds on, feeling a bit of the tension in his shoulders that he didn't know he had melting away.

Right. Mary. She looks exactly like on the photograph, the one where she was standing close to John, and that thought alone makes him nearly shiver. She's assertive and has visibly a lot of opinions on many subjects, as she is still ranting about something like the cafeteria menu and carbs, Stamford and John listening to her and chiming in, while Lestrade and Hooper quietly whisper to each other.

Sherlock doesn't know what John — and Irene, now that he thinks about it — see in her. How come John was ever interested in a opinionated, brutally honest, moody person—

Oh.

Lestrade's phone pings, bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Hey guys, I've got to go. Who's coming to the party tonight?"

"Only Mike, Sherlock and me, I think," John answers, squeezing Sherlock's hand at the same time.

"Nice, a guy's night out! I can't wait to see you all rock that 80's fashion."

Sherlock frowns. "We have to dress up?"

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" John says. "Yeah it's an 80's and disco theme, so you're supposed to dress up, but it's okay if you don't want to. And we've got to go too, we've got lab in ten minutes."

He lets go of Sherlock's hand. "I'll see you tonight?"

Sherlock nods and accompanies them towards the lab. He is not going to his thermodynamics class later (that's for idiots who need the textbook being read to them), so he'll have plenty of time to reconsider his outfit for the evening, and find something he will look fine (no, more than fine!) in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought that this would be the pub chapter? Wrong! I like to slow down things a bit, especially since Sherlock got to see John before Wednesday night.   
> I can definitely promise you that the boys make it to The Lion's Mane next chapter, and that it will be probably quite long too (so it might take a few more days, sorry!). So... angst? Fluff? Smut? Everything all at once? I'm taking your bets!  
> (And your bribes! ;P)


	26. "Joohn?" - "Mmmh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am alive! Sorry for the delay, I know it's been a while, but I had to actually move houses at the last minute, plus the fact that April is a terrible month in amounts of school work. It's possible that further updates may take a while too but don't worry, you will see the end of it!
> 
> SO. Another reason this took me forever to update it's because that this chapter is more than 6k words long, so more than twice the usual chapter size for this fic, but I got a bit carried away. I hope it delivers!
> 
> Also, this may or may-not contain smut ( ;) ), so for those who don't particularly want to read that, I suggest, as always, to skip the part between the clear breaks in paragraphs.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

Just before entering The Lion's Mane, Greg pokes at him. "You should check your phone, mate."

Frowning and asking himself what kind of shenanigans Greg planned out this time, John takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the latest notifications on Messenger, before his nearly gives in under the pressure of seeing what is happening in the chat.

 

**Useless queers + Greg + Molly**

________________21:22___________________

 **George:** Hey, my name changed again!

 **George:** Mary!

_George has added Sherlock Holmes to the group chat._

**Sherlock Holmes:** What's this?

 **George:** The secret place where we plan to overthrow the government?

 **Molls:** Oh don't be silly, it's just our group chat.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** Actually, I wouldn't be against that.

 **George:** Nice! When do we begin?

_Bloody Mary set the nickname for Sherlock Holmes to Stitch Guy._

**George:** Wow, officially baptized! Welcome to the gang. :P

 **Staaamfooord:** I see you typing, Sherlock, and believe me, the story would be too long to tell.

 **Stitch Guy:** Fine.

 

Sighing, John tries to tap a quick reply. Now that lunch went relatively well, are they trying to scare him off forever?

 

 **Grumpy Bi:** Guys… honestly???

 **Stitch Guy:** "Grumpy bi", John, really?

 **Grumpy Bi:** Well it's not like I chose that myself, thank you very much!

 **Bloody Mary:** You're all very welcome. And now go and have fun. ;)

 

Greg elbows him when it's time to show their cards and enter the pub. Being slightly late, he worries that Sherlock will get the wrong idea, especially with what happened in the group chat. It is hard to keep-up with that brain of his, sometimes, and he hopes that his friends' sarcasm and bad manners don't have any negative impact on him.

Greg makes his way towards the dance floor, probably searching for Mike, while John walks towards the bar. After a moment, he discerns the curly head, and there Sherlock is, sitting on one of the stools.

"Hello gorgeous," he introduces himself, leaning on he counter, trying to sound as ridiculous as he possibly can, "would you fancy a drink?"

Sherlock turns his head the corner of his mouth lifts in a wobbly smile. "I might."

"Right, one beer over here, please," he asks the bartender, "and one…"

"Sprite."

"And one Sprite, thanks."

Once he's done with that, he notices that Sherlock is very obviously checking him out. He does a 360 degrees on himself. "How do I look?"

"Very orange," Sherlock says, sounding a bit concerned, and it makes John laugh. He's wearing the tackiest 80's gear he could find: baggy pale-denim jeans pegged at the bottom, white Reeboks, and an oversized jumper of an alarming orange-brown shade. On the other hand, Sherlock looks as handsome as ever in a pair of black Converses, a white tee-shirt tucked in dark skinny high-waisted jeans (God, jeans really does wonders for his arse), and a black jacket (is that fucking _leather_?) with a Led-Zeppelin patch on one side.

"Didn't know you liked heavy metal," he says, playing with the patch. "And that you've watched Grease, apparently." Even his curls are a bit shinier than usual. John can barely contain his smile.

Sherlock shrugs. "I honestly have no idea what both of these things are. Irene found it for me."

"Of course she did," John laughs, sitting down beside him and thanking the bar tender for the drinks he puts in front of them. "Sorry for the group chat, Greg didn't need to drag you into that."

Sherlock doesn't reply. Oh.

"Unless you wanted to, of course. That's fine! Although I suggest that you keep your mobile on silent mode from now on, they can be extremely chatty."

"Yes, I've noticed that," Sherlock says, sipping from his Sprite with a barely noticeable smile.

John chuckles. "They were glad to meet you, though. Although you've already met everyone but Mary, if I'm not wrong?" At Mary's mention, Sherlock purses his lips. Shit. John always forgets not to mention her — he's a bit of a dick to talk like that about his exes, and usually he wouldn't, but he never really considered Mary as an ex, more like a one-time mistake he's dragged across two years of his life as a favor to her. Quickly, he changes the subject. "Did you break the news to Irene, then?"

Sherlock snorts. His knee brushes the inside of John's thigh. "I didn't have to. She spotted it the moment she walked in. I apparently carry the _boyfriend glow_ , she said."

John looks at him, tilting his head. Sherlock does look at bit different, but John doesn't know if that's because he's finally aloud to look at him _like that_. "Mmh, maybe she's not wrong."

"Oh, _please_."

He chuckles and takes a sip form his beer, and from there, the conversation flows, as they talk about the cold case from the 80's Sherlock is working on for a few days now, his latest ash analysis, and how Micheal Gilford's trial (none other than the case with the thumb John helped solve with his medical knowledge, thank you very much) is to take place in a few days.

They drink and they talk and John marvels at the simplicity of their relationship, how easy it is to talk to Sherlock, and how passionate he is when he lunges himself in a description of a particularly gruesome murder involving three axes and a doorknob, or insulting the Yarders and his fellow chemistry colleagues. There is absolutely no small talk ever involved, not with Sherlock participating in the conversation, and John likes that he's that upfront. Direct, honest, bloody amazing and clever all the time. Sherlock is so very clearly a genius that John doesn't know why Sherlock chose _him_ , of all people. He is certainly not going to complain, but maybe it's as simple as the fact that he was the first one to have interacted back with him. John is usually quite confident in what Greg still bothers to call his  _game_ : he's quite good looking, athletic, and grade-wise above-average med student with a promising future. But Sherlock… Sherlock is on another level, with his brain and his looks. The next person being interested in him could very well supplant John, and that's a threat that does dwell in his mind from time to time.

No, he can't think about that right now, not when he's at a pub with his bloody boyfriend ( _!!!_ ) on a date ( _!!!_ ) listening about that time a dog solved a criminal case by pushing his ball under a piece of wall that happened to be a passage to another room ( _!!!!!_ ).

It's only when John starts talking about his last lab where he got to dissect a human heart that Sherlock interrupts him, looking over his shoulder.

"John. Nine o'clock."

"—when Bailey said that she— what?"

"Stay subtile."

Grabbing his pint for another sip, John takes a look behind his shoulder and nearly chokes on the drink when he sees the man dressed in a black hoodie.

"Is that—"

"Yes," Sherlock says, not bothering to look at him. He reclines slightly over the counter, pretending that nothing has happened, but John can feel the smallest changes in his posture: he nearly radiates energy, like a hound that has found trail of its prey.

John takes out his phone: not need to make the same mistake twice. "I'm calling the police," he mouthes, but Sherlock barely notices him. He must be watching if the stalker is making some kind of move on one of the guys at the bar.

Just as he is about to call 999, Sherlock puts a hand on his mobile. "Sherlock! We _have_ to call the police, he can't escape this time," he says as quietly as he can over the loud music.

"Don't," Sherlock whispers back, coming closer than ever (not that John minds the proximity, in fact, they probably look like strangers flirting ear-to-ear, which is probably the effect Sherlock wants to give off to the people around them). " _Really_ John, calling 999 two meters from him? I'll do it, I have that woman's number at the Yard, it will be simpler and quicker." Sherlock stands up, drinking what remains of his Sprite and declares that he's going to pop to the loo. "Don't go anywhere," he adds with a wink that would make anyone's knees go weak. Really, how can Sherlock flirt so easily when he's pretending, John thinks with a smile, yet be so terribly bad at it when it was John trying to get anything out of him?

He turns on his seat, setting both arms on the counter and keeping the man (who is engaging with a bloke John doesn't know) in the corner of his eye while trying not to be seen. After all, he's wearing very different attire from that night a few weeks ago, but can't be sure the stalker won't recognize him from his face. He had nearly broken his nose, after all.

He is sure, just as Sherlock is, that the stalker will definitely try to drug the man's drink, but this time he needs to wait at the right moment to interfere. Too soon would be a disaster, just like last time. It would be better if they could collect the drug from the drink, but again, John certainly won't let the innocent man drink from it — not when he's right there knowingly watching and can prevent it from happening.

John internally prays that the police will have the time to arrive before anything happens, but just as he formulates the thought, he sees the stalker leaning in on the counter, exactly like how he has done with Sherlock, and reaches for the man's drink. This time, John waits until the glass is back in the bloke's hands.

It's time to step in. Too bad for the police. "I'd really not drink that if I were you," he grumbles.

The stalker recognizes him instantly, and backs aways. Before John can do anything about him (and dear God he wants to, just to put his hands on the man that threatened the safety of Sherlock, James Sholto and probably countless others) he takes the drink from the bloke's hands, putting it quickly back on the safety of the counter. _Now_ Sherlock can't complain that he hasn't done everything properly.

"Watch this," he shouts to the poor lad, before he lunges after the stalker, who has gained a few meters on him, trying to make his way through the crowd.

"John!" he hears Sherlock's voice in his back, but doesn't turn his head: he can't let go of the stalker, not this time.

He elbows his way through the dense crowd, vaguely aware that Sherlock is after him. The man is gaining distance, and it's only when John nearly trips on a couple kissing that some people start getting aware that something is wrong: some of them turn around to look, most stop walking, and a few girls start screaming as they are pushed vigorously by the running man.

He's nearing the door, and John gets the horrific feeling in his guts that there is no way in hell he can actually reach and stop him before he gets away.

That's before a giant mass appears out of nowhere, and in a blur hits the man down in what John would call the ruby tackle of the century. He stops right in his tracks, out of breath and surprised, before he feels a running Sherlock crash in his back.

"Shit!" he hears from behind, and turns instantly on his heels, only to see that Sherlock looks all right. Both of them move at the same time towards their target, the stalker now being seemingly under control of what seems to be someone he recognizes.

Both Sherlock and John speak at the same time:

"Lestrade?"

"Greg?"

Greg grunts, pining down the stalker with one knee, twisting his arms in his back and holding him there. "Would you guys stop staring and help me out a bit here?"

They both reach out to help him, but before they can do so, a young woman in a police uniform pushes through the crowd and takes out a pair of handcuffs, followed by two police officers and a bouncer. John wonders if he has seen her before.

"Thank God," he whispers, reaching for Sherlock's hand, who squeezes back as the stalker is being pushed on his feet. "That was quite a catch, Greg."

"I agree," the policewoman says, and suddenly John understands that it's Greg's cousin, the one Sherlock probably called a few minutes ago. "Good to see you, Gregory. I've heard you were considering joining the forces? You'd definitely be good at it. If you need a bit of help to convince your folks don't hesitate to give me a call, I'll talk to them."

She is direct and to the point, and John can see why Sherlock likes her. Or can stand to work with her, at least. "Ah, and Sherlock, good job. Although next time be sure to call us before you start making plans on your own, will you?" Sherlock nods, but John is certain that it's a blatant lie, and the severe look on the woman's face tells him that she doesn't believe him as well. "And I'll need you three at the NSY for your statements tomorrow, at two. Okay?"

"Miss!" John shouts, remembering about the drink. "Before you leave, err, there's the drink on the other side of the counter, the one with the drug."  She nods, indicating to one of the policeman to go fetch it, and when John turns to face Sherlock, it looks as if Sherlock wants to have him right on the spot. "Well, it's not as if I could make the same mistake twice," John says, and Sherlock cuts him off with a kiss. 

By the time the police leaves, pretty much everyone has returned to drinking and dancing, as if nothing had happened in the first place. The three of them stand in silence, Sherlock having literally put John's feet back on the ground, still a bit baffled by the turn of events.

It's Greg who speaks first, passing his hand through his hair and to the back of his head. "I have no idea what the fuck just happened, but _holy shit_ that was something. I definitely need a sensible explanation — but let's sit down, drinks on me!"

The pressure that had been building all night suddenly drops. John laughs heartily, slamming his fist on Greg's shoulder. "All right, mate, you sure you don't want your place back on the rugby team? That was one hell of a tackle!"

"Although I'd love to kick all of your arses, I've officially started training for the physical entry exams for police school."

"Aw, fuck, that's awesome!"

"Congratulations," Sherlock offers, and it sounds genuine enough to make both Greg and John smile back at him.

God, the things John wants to do to him — kiss him again, invite him on the dance floor, go back home together — the possibilities feel infinite, the adrenaline still flooding every cell of his body. He can feel Sherlock vibrate from the same energy, and asks himself if it's like that after every case — if it is, John can't wait for the next one. Yet he knows that his plans are cut short: Greg has made them promise to tell him all of it, and so Sherlock begins recounting the case from the moment Sholto showed up at Baker Street. John fetches them drinks, fancy cocktails this time (and a plain beer for Greg, who apparently needs to assert his manliness even through his alcohol intake), since Sherlock has agreed to a bit of drinking. They're celebrating, after all.

When John gets back to the table, Sherlock is monologuing about the stalker's criminal profile, and John slides him his drink without interrupting: he loves it when Sherlock is so passionate about case solving, and is happy that this time, he has an audience that is as much appreciative as John usually is. Indeed, Greg seems riveted with the tale, asking pertinent questions here and there.

When Sherlock's done, they have already gone through two rounds of cocktails and three of vodka shooters.

"How well do you manage your alcohol?" John asks Sherlock, but he only gets an annoyed eye-roll in response. "Just don't get sick," he adds, before Sherlock shuts him up by attacking his lips with his own.

That's approximately the time Greg leaves them alone.

"C'mon, let's dance," John says at some point, dragging Sherlock unto the dance floor just as _Funky town_ starts playing.

They make it to the center of the dance floor, and start dancing in front of each other. John isn't an exceptionally good dancer, and it surprises him to see that Sherlock doesn't move with more grace than him, but he thinks it's probably more because he isn't used to dancing at clubs than anything else. Instead, he slides his arms on Sherlock's shoulders, bringing them closer as they start dancing properly together. By the time _It's raining men_ starts playing, both of them have their hands up in the air, loosing themselves in the compelling beat of the music.

Sherlock's eyes are closed as he moves now with much more fluidity, and John can't help but stare at the sight in front of him: damp curls clinging to his forehead from sweat and (more than) a bit of product, cheeks pink from the effort, lips slightly parted, tongue darting out from time to time. God. They get closer, and this time it's Sherlock who puts his arms around John's neck, forehead to forehead, while Johns takes him by the waist. They've been dancing for over nearly hour and he's getting a bit tired, his head light and dizzy from the drinks he had.

Suddenly, Sherlock's lips seem most appealing, and so he tugs him down by the collar of his jacket to properly kiss him. It's exhilarating, doing it like that, in front of a crowd of anonymous strangers. John is still not out, but hopefully nobody here will recognize him, and he's well past thinking about being careful. Right now, he just wants Sherlock.

And going by the hardness he feels against his hip, Sherlock seems to want him back.

"Let's go home?" John manages to shout over the music, to which Sherlock answers with a nod, pupils dilated.

The second they're out of the club, John swallows a deep breath of fresh air before Sherlock takes his hand and starts running down down the road, John after him.

"Sherlock— what the hell?!"

Has he seen someone? Something? What? Why? How? The fuck?

Sherlock stops abruptly, and John nearly runs into him before Sherlock turns and catches him in his arms. He looks around them before tugging John in an alleyway.

It's dark and John can't really see what's happening, but soon enough he's against a wall and Sherlock is kissing him again. It's slow and wet, the sounds they're making seems incredibly loud now that they've left the main road. John slides his hand under Sherlock's tee-shirt, feeling the skin of his back, mentally preparing himself to stop when things will get too heated (they really can't do that here unless they want to end the night at the police station). As if Sherlock has read his thoughts, he gently bites John's bottom lip, and for a while it's just teeth against teeth, smile against smile. When he finally manages to capture Sherlock's mouth again, they're more fighting than kissing, and that's good, because John might be more than a bit drunk and he has never snogged nor been snogged like that. Ever.

When Sherlock's hands make it to his belt, John shoves them away, dragging his teeth on Sherlock's jaw. "We really can't do that here," he whispers, his ears still buzzing from the loud music. "Baker Street?"

Sherlock nods again, and they take off running again down to the the nearest underground station.

They make it on the tube, stumbling and out of breath, and Sherlock presses him against a wall of the compartment, apparently working on leaving a trail of love bites on John's neck.

Not far away, a little old lady clears her throat, and John shoves Sherlock away, laughing at the situation. When they finally sit down, John notices their reflection in the window in front of them. They definitely look like they've been doing what they've been doing, hair messy, clothes disheveled, lips swollen.

Sherlock is staring too, sitting uptight and slightly frowning at the vision of themselves. For the first time in what seemed to be forever, he speaks: "They look happy."

John chuckles, kissing him on the cheek. "They are."

Sherlock mellows a bit on his seat, letting his head drop on John's shoulder. He picks up Sherlock's hand, messing around with his fingers, before the tube stops at Baker Street's station and they wobble out of it, laughing again.

"You're so quiet tonight," John teases him once they're back on the street, a few blocks away from 221b. "What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow as to say _really, John, can't you deduce it?_ "I'm thinking about how that lady in the tube was on her way to meet way to meet with her dealer, about the fact that the person living at 227 isn't home from their two-weeks holiday in South America, and that I can't quite understand why because my level of inhibition is slowing down the logical process of my brain, and about how the prosecutor will handle Gilford's case, because half of them are usually useless. I'm also calculating the number of hours we have left before we need to get down at the Yard tomorrow morning before class."

John chuckles, just as they arrive to 221b's front door. "I'm sorry that I asked," he says, teasing.

Sherlock opens the door, and actually _smirks_ at him, and with the leather jacket/tight white teeshirt/skinny jeans/messy hair combo, it makes John want to _devour_ him. Maybe he will, he thinks, stumbling on the carpet inside the door, too focused on the exact shape of Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock catches him at the last second, which gives John a very good excuse to put his mouth on Sherlock's mouth, and everything in the universe is made right again. He feels the outline of a door in his back, which he is being pressed against by Sherlock.

"We should go— upstairs, Jesus— or we'll wake up your— housekeeper— landlady— thing."

Sherlock nuzzles him, a dangerous smile on his face. "Hudders? Who cares?"

"Sherlock!" John protests, hissing a sharp breath as Sherlock pushes his thigh between his legs, hitting the door behind him, the glass vibrating from the aftershocks. It sounds exactly like they're doing what they're doing.

John tugs on Sherlock's hair, nearly ready to give in and have him right here and then, when the light behind the door turns on. Sherlock raises his head, like a deer freezing under headlights, which makes John want to laugh and kiss him at the same time. The next thing he knows, Sherlock is running up the stairs, John in his back, pushing him from time to time when he stumbles, and when they reach the top they can't help themselves but erupt in laughter and giggles.

A second later, Sherlock is running again, hands slamming on the walls, this time in the direction of his bedroom, and John takes off after him.

"You don't stand a chance against me, Holmes," he warns him, catching his arm just after they enter the bedroom.

Sherlock turns on himself, and instead of trying to get away, he grabs John's arm back and tugs him until they both fall on the bed, John on top. It's a confusion of limbs as they start fighting again, legs kicking and arms grabbing, until John catches Sherlock's face between his hands, and kisses him.

"Fuck," John mutters into the kiss, breathing heavily.

Sherlock pops on his elbows, leather jacket sliding from one of his shoulders, and John understands that he needs him to be naked, right _now_.

"God, you make me crazy," he whispers, hands helping Sherlock out of the jacket, "with your bloody Greaser look, you're so fucking hot— so hot— even more than that— bloke actor— err—"

"John Travolta?" Sherlock supplies, hands busy with undoing John's belt, trying to keep him still despite John's efforts to get Sherlock's hands exactly where he wants them to be.

"Yes, him," John says while pulling the white tee-shirt over Sherlock's head. He feels the pair of hands tugging down his jeans and his pants around his thighs, finally freeing his erection. "Yes, yes, yes _yes_ … Wait!" Sherlock stops. "You said you never watched Grease," John says with a grin, pushing Sherlock against the mattress, arms above his head.

"I—" Sherlock starts, but doesn't seem to have in mind any possible explanation.

"You filthy liar!" He kisses him, dragging his lips on Sherlock's jaw and throat, before sucking at his Adam's apple.

"It's Irene's favourite movie," Sherlock protests. 

"It's not." 

"No." 

John kisses him again, licking in his mouth, and Sherlock whimpers, wiggling his hips, seeking more friction. God. His jeans. His arse. "John—"

"You torment me, Sherlock, do you know that? You _knew_ that those jeans would make me go crazy— I thought about this moment all fucking night— all the things I'd do to you—"

"John! Please—"

He doesn't need to be asked twice. Somehow they successfully get out of their shoes, socks, jeans and pants, and seeing Sherlock naked under him— that's not a sight John will ever tire of. Ever. He reaches in his back to pull at the orange jumper, but Sherlock stops him.

"No, leave it," he whispers, eyes a bit dazed, and it makes John smile.

"Fine. On your knees, lovely."

 

Sherlock does as he's told, scrambling on his knees and elbows, shivering when John's hands caress his flank. He thinks for a second about what he wants to do, but focusing is _just_ so hard, and the problem is that there's not a single thing that he doesn't want to do.

"Less thinking," Sherlock hisses, moving backwards a bit, trying to seek contact.

Without exactly knowing why, John leans in and kisses the small of Sherlock's back, just above his left arse cheek, hands stroking his thighs. He lets his lips trail down, dragging on Sherlock's skin, following the curve of his buttock. He does the same thing on the other side, listening to Sherlock's ragged breathing and trying to forget about his own arousal. It's surprisingly easy: there is nothing more important at this exact moment than pleasuring Sherlock, as if the universe has shrunk to the walls of their bedroom.

Another wave of inspiration takes him as he bites the glorious thing that is Sherlock's arse, not hard enough to hurt, really, only to leave a mark. It doesn't feel like their previous silly fight, kissing and running and kicking themselves in the shins. This is about marking. Sherlock is his. So, tremendously _his_. He sucks and he sucks until Sherlock whimpers and reaches between his legs with his hand, but John gets on top of him, chest to back, his own cock dragging on Sherlock's skin (tempting, but not _yet_ ), and batts his hand away.

"No, let me," he whispers in his ear, to which Sherlock answers by turning his head, kissing him sloppily over his shoulder.

John moves away after a second, smiling at Sherlock's frustrated huff, tugging his curls just hard enough to push his head back towards the mattress, reminding him who's in charge (this once, then he'll let Sherlock have as much fun as he wants in the morning, or next time). Kissing is good. Kissing is very good, but his idea is better.

He drags his lips across the back of Sherlock's neck, just over each bony bump of his spine.

He kisses his way down.

Down seven cervical vertebrae.

Down twelve thoracic vertebrae.

Down five lumbar invisible vertebrae.

Down the five fused one that compose the sacrum.

Down down down down.

Down.

(Sherlock may as well have stopped breathing, John can hear him counting in his mind.)

A final peck on his coccyx, right just above the crack of his arse.

John's hands splay over each buttock, looking up at Sherlock's back, his head still hanging between his shoulders, his spine slightly arched after John's passage. He can feel Sherlock's anticipation, the air around them buzzing with drunken want, the desire to know what John's next move will be. God. He's fantasized about this for _weeks_.

He slowly parts Sherlock's arse cheeks, and kisses him right there.

On his small pink hole.

Sherlock gasps, his head falling on his hands, and John looks up, but before he can ask him if it's all right, Sherlock cuts him to the chase. " _Don't_ stop!"

He doesn't need to be asked twice and lowers his face again. This time, he licks a broad strip down to Sherlock's perineum, before teasing by him circling his rim with his tongue. He can feel Sherlock wiggling under him, trying to get him back on the exact spot. Maybe John has tortured him enough for one night, so he gives in, and he puts his whole mouth there, French-kissing Sherlock's hole as if it were his mouth. God, he only hopes that he will remember this in the morning, the sound that Sherlock makes the exact moment John pushes his tongue inside.

It's a sharp shout, nearly a sob, and John feels deep in his bones the exact moment Sherlock completely looses it, his hips snapping backwards. Right at that moment, surrounded by the strong musk of his lover's most intimate part and the sound of his ragged _uh, uh, uh, uhs,_ John could die a happy man because _Sherlock Holmes_ is fucking himself on his tongue.

Sherlock cries out a second time, and he's coming, and coming, and coming, untouched.

The moment he slumps on the bed, John climbs on top of him, wiping the saliva off his chin before leaving a quick peck on Sherlock's cheek, just under his fluttering eyelashes (the clever voice of reason telling him it would be a good idea to clean his mouth before proper kissing).

Now that Sherlock seems utterly blissed-out, John is reminded of his own aching erection. Too far gone to think, he curls one hand in Sherlock's hair, resting his weight on his other elbow, and starts rutting against him, his cock dragging over the small of Sherlock's back. It's definitely not his most graceful move in bed, but he's so close, so very close, he only needs a bit more friction before coming himself.

He lowers himself just a bit, one hand returning to Sherlock's arse, and his cock blissfully drags between his buttocks, just above his hole. John moans, and suddenly feels Sherlock's hand on the back of his thigh, as he starts to accompany his movements. John has no idea what the name for what he's doing is, if there even _is_ a name for that, but it feels terribly good, and so so close to actual fucking.

John can't help but imagine himself penetrating that tight hole, the one that is now slack from his own tongue and saliva, the blissful drag of his cock in Sherlock's heat, the promise of Sherlock doing it to him, just after.

He's rutting harder and harder, catching Sherlock's hands and pinning them above his head on the mattress. He's not even between Sherlock's buttocks anymore and he couldn't care less, his ugly-orange jumper hunched up on his shoulders, all control lost, until he feels his orgasm building deep in his balls.

"Yes," Sherlock whispers under him, still slightly moving against him, "come on, John, _come_."

And because John can't refuse anything to Sherlock, he does exactly that.

 

He slumps over Sherlock, boneless. It takes him a moment to recover, pretty sure that he has blacked out for a second, but when he does he feels Sherlock's thumb moving on the side of his thigh.

He rolls on his side and nearly falls off the bed. John gets up, before he'll smother Sherlock with his weight, and zig-zags his way to the bathroom (is the room spinning around him, a little?) to retrieve a wet flannel, and takes a moment to gargle a bit of mouthwash. Because he really, really wants to snog Sherlock, next.

When he steps back in the bedroom, Sherlock lying on his back, visibly staring back, a (very drunken) grin on his face. John looks down to see the state of the jumper he's still wearing, covered in sweat around the neck and armpits, and spattered with come. It nearly makes him like the ugly thing more.

He takes it off by pulling it over his head, and climbs on the bed on all-fours, going straight for a kiss.

After a satisfying snog and a bit of cleaning, John lowers himself in Sherlock's arm, his head on his shoulder. Again, Sherlock seems quite silent, and John wonders if he liked what they did. Maybe he should have asked first. He has only seen rimming in porn, it's definitely not something he used to do with his girlfriends.

"I wonder if I did it all right," he thinks out loud, a bit concerned. What if he has made an utter fool of himself?

"I— It was good. Quite… libidinous."

He'll have to check out what that word means in the morning, but for now he'll take it as a compliment. "What, the rimming, or me humping you to orgasm?"

"Uh, the first one. Although the second part was good too. But I really like… that. Yes. Pioneering."

John chuckles. Pioneering?! Unless Sherlock— "Oh, Sherlock. Err, I mean, it's a thing. That people do. I've seen it before." Good, now he sounds like he indulges in voyeurism on the weekends. "In porn, I mean! It's just—" Great. He's really doing great. "Rimming." Can he shut up, now, and stop making Sherlock feel uncomfortable?

"Oh." Sherlock looks away. Is he blushing? Is Sherlock actually blushing? "I didn't… know."

John gets a hand on the other side of Sherlock's face, kissing him on the cheek. "Don't worry, I didn't know before too. But I'm glad you liked it."

Sherlock nods, and that seems to be the end of the discussion. He turns on the bed, freeing his hand from underneath John's hand and rolls on his side to face him. John wiggles a bit to make himself more comfortable, discards a lost sock that he drops on the ground, and tugs the duvet over them.

He's nearly asleep when he hears Sherlock's voice again. "John?"

"Mmmh?"

"What are the three continents?"

John pops on his elbows. "What?! Where did you hear that?"

"In the… group chat, they call you Three Continents." There's a silence. "I mean, Europe's a given, but, err— America?"

Are they really doing this? John massages his face, trying to wake up a bit. He's definitely too drunk for the good ol' _past relationships_ discussion. "God. Always hated that nickname. Sounds as if I dragged my cock all over to impregnated every single woman in the world."

"Mmmh, it does," Sherlock says, smiling.

"Are you implying that I'm a slut, Holmes?"

Apparently, the word _slut_ makes drunk-Sherlock giggle like John has never seen him do, before he makes a snorting sound that makes him laugh even more, and it's so silly and endearing at the same time that John also starts laughing.

"You're a slutty slut— oi!" Sherlock shouts upon receiving John's leg in the shins.

"Watch your dirty mouth, you cock!"

They laugh some more, and when his sides start hurting from it John turns on his back and sighs. There's another moment of silence.

"So?" Sherlock asks.

"What?"

"Continents!"

"Ugh. The nickname isn't even true. No, I mean, it is, but it wasn't when they gave it to me. And it obviously wasn't my intention to fulfill it."

He feels Sherlock's lips against his bare shoulder. "Tell me."

"Well, there's Europe, yep. And I did go to the States on a school trip, once. Care to deduce the last one, genius?"

Sherlock breathes in, trying to make up his mind. "AsiaAfricaOceania."

"That's all of them, silly. Had a Chinese girlfriend at the beginning of uni. Lasted two weeks. I don't even know if this qualifies." Technically, they didn't have sex in Asia, so he's pretty sure that the Three Continents thing is wrong.

"And us?" Sherlock asks, quietly.

"What about us?"

"It's not like we qualify."

John frowns. "What? Is this about you being a man? Because I bloody well can be Three Continents and Two Genders Watson if I want to."

"No, don't mind."

John turns back on his side, facing Sherlock. Good. Now he's worried. "No, _you_ tell me."

"Well it's not like we've been having real sex."

"Uh, never new imaginary sex could be so bloody amazing, in that case."

"You know what I mean."

"Actually, I don't," John replies, a bit frustrated. He can't read Sherlock's mind as easily as he reads his. He has to tell him, or he won't be able to make it good!

"Intercourse," Sherlock blurts out.

"Oh. What about it? Do you want to, someday?"

"Do you?"

Sherlock's tone sounds like he's giving a challenge. Honestly, yes, John has thought about it, the last time being barely minutes ago. But John has also thought about many, many things, probably some of which they will never do, and that's fine. He can live without anal sex, as much as he'd be okay with trying it out. He remembers trying out a position he thought would be the sexiest thing ever with one of his previous girlfriends, and the absolute failure that followed showed him that it's alright that some fantasies stay... fantasies. He only has to tell Sherlock with the right words.

"I don't know? I mean, sure, we could try, but I'm very happy with what we've got. Maybe we should talk about it when we're less pissed," he adds, sliding an arm around Sherlock's back to bring him closer.

They have all the time in the world, he reflects, as his eyelids feels heavier and heavier.

"John?"

"Mmmh?"

"I have to confess something to you."

"Mmmh?"

"I'm Australian."

John bursts out laughing. "You dick! You're so not!"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's the first time I've written rimming, so I hope it was all right! If anything seems wrong, just blame it on John's drunkenness. ;)
> 
> Our boys don't wear the tackiest 80's disco gear, more like what people casually wore in the 80's, but you can imagine Greg and Mike in whatever shiny one-pieces you'd like them in. ;) As I am not a fan of Travolta (and he wore a black tee-shirt in Grease if I remember correctly?), Sherlock's "Greaser" look was much more inspired by a-ha's singer in the [Take on Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djV11Xbc914) video. Which is more of an 80's look anyway, since Grease is supposedly set in the 50's and the greaser look originated earlier than the 80's, although there was a revival in the 80's (because of Grease, I have no idea? I honestly don't know anything about fashion!). So yes, Sherlock is cheating a bit. Too look good. No one will blame him, surely? ;)  
> Anyway. Also, the ugly orange baggy sweater wasn't supposed to stay but Sherlock thought otherwise, and I can't go against him.
> 
> ALSO, you have to check out [this beautiful artwork](http://arcwin1.tumblr.com/post/172188318146/subaru-scene-beautiful-artwork-by-ronnikins1-for) done by ronnikins1 depicting the scene just before John and Sherlock's first kiss! <333
> 
> As always, thank you for following this, and leaving comments and kudos. <333


	27. Sugarplum Dove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local uni student has several meltdowns about sex in just a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, again, for the delay! I'm just done with exams, so updates should be quicker now, especially that we're getting close to the end of this story!
> 
> This chapter (and I hope it's partly funny and angsty), is basically a big discussion centered about sex. You could skip it if that's not your thing, but I don't recommend it, because there's quite a bit of character development that will be talked about in future chapters. :)

 

Sherlock swore to himself to never drink again. Like, ever, ever, ever _again_. Oh, surely, it hadn't been all bad — in fact it had been quite good, with the laughing and the kissing and holy hell does John always have the _dirtiest_ ideas. Yet in the morning, as they woke up limbs entangled in a messy bed, Sherlock couldn't help but be embarrassed of the things he had said on the night before. They didn't have any time to stick around Baker Street once they had finally got out of bed, since they had to go to the Yard, and so their discussion had remained somewhat unfinished. He knew both of them remembered everything (and it was both a blessing and a curse), but John didn't comment on it, and so Sherlock let it drop. He was certainly not going to embarrass himself again.

Anal sex, Sherlock thinks, as he ignores the equation his lab teacher is doing on the board (that's chapter 9, paragraph 12 of their biochemistry manual, seriously, people _could_ just read and the class would be shorter for it). Anal sex.

He doodles an approximate representation on the corner of his notebook. Quickly crosses it out before anyone can see.

It's not that he has not thought about anal sex. Quite the opposite, especially lately, with his hormones going through the roof. John has apparently that effect on him. Which is fine. Totally fine. Of course it's fine, why wouldn't it be fine?

Apart from the subject of anal sex.

It's not like Sherlock is a virgin anymore. Virginity being a social construct and all, obviously. But _is_ he? He has done some things — mutual masturbation, given and received fellatio, and done other kinds of skin-to-skin activities that fall under the broad umbrella of _sex_. So, at which point does he stop being a virgin? Heterosexually speaking, one stops being a virgin after penetrating or being penetrated for the first time. In + out = virginity lost. (Quite disgusting, thank you very much.) Yet how does it apply to the very gay sex he's been having with John? Is he a virgin until he has performed anal sex? Does he have to be penetrated, or it counts when one only penetrates?

It all gets very confusing. Maybe it's inadequate to associate such a heteronormative term (and social construct, _obviously_!) to what he has with John. John Watson, who is also very not-a-virgin since all of the very heterosexual sex he's had, even though Sherlock knows that he's the first man John ever been with. So on that aspect, well, they're both inexperienced, aren't they? Anal-virgins. God. Sherlock rolls his eyes at nothing and cringes internally.

Yet, another logical aspect of it all is that John, having been in the number of previous heterosexual relationships and encounters, will obviously be interested in being the one who penetrates. Not that Sherlock minds: he thinks he would enjoy either, not that he can really know before it happens, anyway. But… what if he doesn't like it? What if John enjoys it and not him? That can't happen, because John likes sex, John likes penetrative sex, and if there is no real sex, well John could leave. And that can't happen.

With a sigh, Sherlock closes his book, deciding that he has had enough with sitting down listening to a teacher ramble for what seems to be hours on end. When he looks up, he finds that his chemistry class has transformed into an economy class. How long exactly was he sitting there?

Not minding the talking teacher, he gets up, packs his stuff, and leaves.

The following week passes at an astonishingly fast pace, as Sherlock is forced to write down and hand-in his lab report, and is asked by Mrs. Hudson to clean the whole kitchen after blowing up a pig's liver while calculating tissue resistance.

He spends his days texting John, who seems to be equally busy, and eyeing whatever is said on the group chat — but never replying.

He researches Internet, the uni's databases for the latest research published in sexual health and psychology. Reads countless testimonials of teenager girls asking over the Internet _what is sex like_ , _is bleeding usual_ , and _is it going to hurt_. He scoffs at it all but keeps on reading, and finally when Sherlock thinks he has the theory well in mind, he texts John.

 

**The Bearable One**

________________01:02___________________

 **Genius Detective:** You are free Friday night.

 **John:** Are you stalking me, Mr. Holmes? ;)

 **Genius Detective:** I know your schedule. It never changes.

 **John:** I know, was just teasing you. :-)

 **Genius Detective:** Oh.

 **John:** But yes, I'm free. Anything in mind?

 **Genius Detective:** No. You could come to Baker Street. Stella will be at your place anyway. Way too crowded.

 **John:** Three people is crowded?

 **Genius Detective:** You know what I mean.

 **John:** I do, don't worry, my precious little electron. ;)

 **Genius Detective:** Honestly, John.

 **John:** How's the experiment going, by the way, sweetie pie?

 **Genius Detective:** Not well. I miscalculated the pressure and the liver blew up. Had to clean up, took me all afternoon.

 **John:** Aw shit, I'm sorry about that. Did Mrs H have a stroke when she saw the kitchen?

 **Genius Detective:** Nothing near that. She's stronger than you think, John, she nearly beheaded me on the spot when I suggested that she could help me with it.

 **John:** Jesus, one day you're going to kill that woman!

 **Genius Detective:** You only say that because you like her. Don't pretend I saw you accepting that lasagna on my behalf.

 **John:** Says the man who'd kill the first person who'd even come as close as to touch her. And her food is delicious. SOMEONE has to eat it!

 **Genius Detective:** I eat all the time, John. I just don't have your ability to inhale food.

 **John:** Oh! I'm so hurt! Don't pretend that you like me after what you say, Sherlock Holmes!

 **Genius Detective:** I do like you.

 **John:** I know, sugarplum dove.

 **Genius Detective:** Actually, I take that back.

 **John:** No, you don't. :-)

 **Genius Detective:** No, I don't.

 **John:** I'm off to bed. Joining me tonight?

 **Genius Detective:** Unfortunately, I still have that liver experiment to I've another go.

 **John:** Oh, all right then, see you at lunch?

 **Genius Detective:** Yes, but if Molly calls us "adorable" another time, I'll get up and leave.

 **John:** I'll pass the message. Sweet experimenting, honeybee. xxxx

 **Genius Detective:** Sweet dreams, John.

 

On Wednesday night, Sherlock ends up visiting John in the middle of the night, since they could not see each other during the day, because of uni and late-night rugby practice. This time John is still up, buried on his bed under a pile of textbooks he sets aside when he sees Sherlock climbing through the window. They end up having sex, for the first time in John's bed, and it's slow and lazy and good. Sherlock actually falls asleep after it, only waking to a few knocks on the door.

"What," he answers, disoriented, before he sees John's waking silhouette in the bed beside him.

It's Mike who answers, telling them with a cheeky tone that coffee's ready, and that they should get ready for school. Sherlock remembers that they weren't actually that silent last night, and feels slightly embarrassed, as if caught by John's parents.

They do quickly dress up and join Mike and Stella in the kitchen, the four of them attentively watching the coffee machine doing its second run, and it's when Stella pours cereals in her tea and puts the box back in the fridge that Sherlock understands that no one here even cares a bit that he's been having sex with John Watson that night, or that they heard.

Friday comes more quickly than anticipated.

Sherlock goes to the store, purchases lube (the special kind of anal sex, he's read about that), and condoms (they're both clean, but he knows John will insist). He nearly makes the cashier cry because of what he says to her when she handles the product to scan them (seriously, does she have to be so obvious about it?!).

Once he's home, he arranges everything in the bedroom, showers, shaves, checks if everything is all right down there, puts a pair of pants and throws a dressing gown on his shoulders.

John should be here any minute now.

When Sherlock finally hears the footsteps climbing the stairs, he jumps out of the sofa where he's been awkwardly sitting for thirty minutes, and opens the door just as John seems to be reaching the handle from the other side.

Before John can say anything, Sherlock plants his mouth on John's lips, dragging him by the wrist in the living room.

"Sorry I'm late," John breathes between two kisses, "Ma—", kiss, "Mar—", kiss, "she was answering a question about cardio."

"I can answer your questions about cardio," Sherlock answers, hands rummaging through John's hair, already pressing his body against his.

John huffs, as if it's the cheesiest line he's ever heard (it probably is, but Sherlock couldn't care less). "Sorry— Jesus, someone's eager to see me."

"Missed you," Sherlock breathes out, transferring his mouth to John's jawline, to his beautiful, perfect, ready-to-be kissed neck.

"You saw— me— Jesus— yesterday."

"Exactly." He presses his palm to the bulge in front of John's jeans, feeling with satisfaction that he's already getting hard. He rubs there for a second, and John hisses, pressing back into the touch. "Take this off," Sherlock orders, one hand on John's jacket.

John nods feverishly, and as they make their way to the bedroom, pieces of clothing drop to the floor, until they're both stark naked and kissing on the bed, John on top of him, heavy and comfortable.

Sherlock finally breaks off the kiss, both hands around John's head, looking in his deep-blue eyes. "I want to have sex," he whispers.

John kisses his neck, sucking a bit. "I got that idea, yeah."

Sherlock shakes his head, squirming a bit under John's touch. "I mean— I want you to penetrate me."

John stops and lifts his head, staring at him. Sherlock sees how much that idea tempts John, but also how he tries to stay rational. "Are— are you sure? Is this something you want?"

"Yes," Sherlock hushes him, trying to calm down the feeling swelling in his guts. It's too late to back out now, anyway, since he'd already gone out and asked. It's not like he himself doesn't want to. Of course he wants to. Everything he's read about anal sex is about how it's wonderful and feels good and what it's exactly like two bodies becoming one, and he wants that with John, just as he wants John to find a reason to stay.

"Yes," he repeats, trying to sound more conniving than the first time.

John nods. "Have you got, err—"

Without saying a word, Sherlock moves over to the side of the bed and takes out the lube and the box of condoms. John opens his mouth, as if to say something, but closes it right away. He takes out one condom off the box and hands it to Sherlock.

"You should use one too," he says, and Sherlock frowns, not really understanding why.

He sits on the side of his bed, opening the plastic wrapper, hearing the same sound over where John is sitting in his back. Slowly, he unrolls the condom, and—

"Sherlock?"

He turns his head, seeing that John's already done with that awkward part. "What?"

John comes over, his head over Sherlock's shoulder, and when they kiss Sherlock can feel that John is smiling a bit. He takes the unrolled condom from Sherlock's hand and let it drop on the floor. Has he changed ideas?

"Let me," John whispers, kissing Sherlock's neck and reaching for another one.

"Why?"

John kisses him again. "Because I like touching you," he says, taking the condom from the wrapper, pinching the tip of it and rolling it down Sherlock's erection— oh.

Sherlock blushes, his shoulders slightly hitching down. Of all the goddamn research he's done, he has not actually checked _how to properly put a condom on_. Jesus. This— this was supposed to be perfect. Flawless. For John. But now, how can John even want that with someone who has never in his life known how do this most basic step. This is exactly what he's feared, him being so bad at it all that John has to teach him through. Through sex. The exact opposite of _sexy_ , of everything John has praised him to be: a show-off, a genius, someone who excels at everything on the first try.

" _Sherlock_." John's voice brings him back to the reality of his bedroom. John is still behind him, arms around Sherlock's shoulders, his erection slightly pressing in the small of Sherlock's back. With horror, Sherlock notices that his own is softening quickly, and he hates himself for a moment, understanding that not only he has ruined the first moment of their night, he has now ruined all of it.

"Sherlock, we can do something else if you want to," John says, gently, and that above all is what finished him.

John is being _gentle_ while Sherlock is letting him down.

"I don't think— I don't think—"

"Do you want to stop?"

Sherlock nods, looking at a spot on the floor. He removes the condom and throws it on the floor too, before turning and letting John encircle his arms around him. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Nothing to be sorry 'bout," John answers, kissing him. It's sweet yet passionate, and Sherlock knows that he would be content with just that tonight. Just kissing.

He feels John's erection (although it has softened a bit by now), bump against his hip. "Do you want to—"

"No, I'll be fine," John says, smiling, as he kisses him again and let them both lie down on the bed. "Actually, I wanted to show you something."

He rolls on his front, rummaging through the clothes on the floor before he finds his phone, and retrieves it back in bed. Sherlock leans in, curious.

"Do you know that Molly used to dance ballet?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John, most women did dance ballet at least once in their lives. Yes, I know about Molly."

John kisses him on the cheek. "Forgot you were a genius, for one second here. Anyway, the other day she showed me this video — I don't know if you saw it before, but I thought it would interest you."

Sherlock watches as John opens the phones, goes on Youtube and finds said video. He turns his phone around, making the screen bigger, and pops it on a pillow between them.

Sherlock watches with amazement as a ballet dancer (a _very_ good one, that is), starts to dance some contemporary choreography to a modern pop song he doesn't recognise. He has never seen something like that, the man's _jetés_ are impossibly high, as if he were flying, and his _attitude_ is a thing of beauty.

When the video finishes, he's stuck for one moment looking at the black screen, trying to print into his mind every single detail of the man's dance.

"So," John says, rolling on his side with a curious smile on his face, "can you dance like that?"

"Are you _kidding_? John! This man must be a professional dancer at the very least, not even counting his natural talent in the way he dances to the music, and his attitude towards the rhythm, the emotions—"

He goes on for a while, analysing the video bit by bit as they re-watch it a few times, until John rolls under the covers with a smile on his face. "I think I'll sleep a bit now. Still on for studying at the library tomorrow morning?"

Sherlock had opposed studying at the library for a long time, but now John insists on it, because staying at home actually doesn't lead to a lot of _studying_. "All right. I'll wake you up at eight."

"Mmmmhperfect," John mumbles, eyes closing on their own.

Sherlock gets under John's arm, contemplating the ceiling. After a few minutes, when John is fast asleep, an uncomfortable feeling set in Sherlock's chest.

He really wanted tonight to be _it_. John has every right to be disappointed at him, hell— he is disappointed at himself! He could have just powered through and dealt with the pain and the stretch and the general dirtiness of sex, like the articles had talked about, but he had flunked out at _putting a condom on_.

He curses under his breath, rolling from under John's arm without waking him. Deciding that he needs fresh air, Sherlock puts clothes on before going downstairs and softy closes the door behind him.

Once on the street, he reaches in his pocket and lights a cigarette, before strolling down the street, letting his feet wander in whatever direction they please. He doesn't know what to do. Obviously, next time he will know how to correctly put that condom, just like John had shown him, caring and gentle, not laughing at him but teaching him the right way while saying _because I like touching you_. But maybe — maybe it's also because Sherlock didn't want to. Not that he won't ever want to, he does, but tonight it felt just… wrong. Too soon.

He takes his phone out, considering. The only person he'd want to talk about it is exactly the person he can't do it. He checks his (very short) list of contact, seeing Irene's name nearly at the top of it.

Should he?

Her, of all people?

She does consider herself his friend, and he guesses that she could be, if she weren't annoying and everything. And she does know a lot about sex.

Feeling like he's going to regret this decision, Sherlock taps on her name, and hears his phone ring. She answers nearly instantly, even though it's the middle of the night.

"Sherlock?"

"Obviously."

"You never call.

"I know."

"What is it?" she says, a bit exasperated that the conversation isn't leading anywhere. Maybe he should have waited in the morning to call her. Or not call her at all.

"I— I fucked up," he admits, and cringes internally.

There's a moment of silence. "Where are you?"

"Outside." Then he reconsiders. " _Not_ buying drugs, obviously."

She lets a single breathe out. "All right, what happened?"

He bites his lower lip. He's not exactly sure how he should put it — better to be honest and out with it. "We— John and I— were about to—"

"Fuck," she completes for him, "yes, and? Jesus, Sherlock, I haven't got all night, here."

"We were about to do it— To have anal sex, that is, and I panicked."

"In… what way?"

He breathes in. "I didn't know how to put the condom on."

There's a moment of silence. "That's all?"

"Yes?"

"Jesus Christ, and I thought there was a body to hide."

This is slightly frustrating. Does no one understand the gravity of what just happened? "No, but it's bad, you don't—"

"How did he react?"

"I— well, I wasn't in the— _mood_ ," he says, trying to use euphemisms the best he can. He can't talk as explicitly as Irene does about his _own_ sex life. "And he said that we could stop if I wanted to. So we did. He's sleeping now."

"Mmmh, good boy."

"But now I've ruined it all, of course."

"Oh my God, you can be an idiot sometimes, Sherlock Holmes," she bites back, exasperated but definitely smiling at the other end of the line. "Do you even hear yourself? You're about to have a nice fuck with your steady boyfriend, you make one understandable mistake for someone who's more of a virgin than freakin' Mother Mary, and when you realise that you've lost interest John makes you stop and probably also gives you the snog of your life. _Don't_ tell me for a moment that this is about a stupid condom."

Sherlock gapes a bit, unsure of how he wants to answer that, but before he can do anything, Irene starts talking again. "Obviously you'd be nervous on your first time, and if John has two connected brain cells, which he does since he reacted nicely, he will take that into account. Do you think nice blokes go around sticking their cocks in their partners without caring a bit if they're all right with it or not?"

"But it's embarrassing. It should have been… good, for both of us. I wanted it to be that way, I researched—"

"Well, there's the Holmes I know. Sherlock, honestly, sex isn't always good, nor it is about science. Especially when you're with someone new, or new to it yourself. Oh yeah, sure, it's great when it actually works, but you have to get to know your partner, what he likes, what he doesn't like, what you like and don't like. It's messy and complicated and you have every goddamn right to be nervous about it and saying that you want to stop. Plus you sound like you've got a bloody fantastic and patient teacher, so get off your high horses and let him show you what he knows when you'll be all right with it. And maybe anal isn't even a thing you're into. So what?"

"Aren't I supposed to be _into_ it? What if John—"

"Then you should talk to John about it, not me. And I thought you were clever."

"Fine," he says, sulking a bit. "I will. I just wish I'd get it on the first try."

A sigh comes from the other end of the line. "This _will_ absolutely stay between us, but the first time I ever tried with a woman I was drunk and so nervous that I threw up on her midway through."

Sherlock chuckles and gasps at the same time, imagining the scene. "How did it end?"

"She screamed, obviously. And probably started crying too, I don't remember, I was about to pass out."

"And you're telling me that John will be fine about this," he answers, sceptical.

"Well, there's one big difference between John and Bitchy Betty, and it's that John is _not_ Bitchy Betty."

Put like that, she can't be wrong. "All right," he says.

"Good. Next time, make sure there's an actual body when you're calling me at this hour. And Sherlock, do talk to John about it, will you?"

He hums vaguely, and a moment after, she ends the call.

A few minutes later he's back at Baker Street again, and climbs up the stairs silently. He passes through the bathroom to wash the cigarette taste out of his mouth, and undresses himself, before sliding back under the covers in his bed.

When he's sure he has not woken John, John turns on his back, rubbing at his eyes, and takes Sherlock in his arms again. "'Was worried for a minute, there, you leaving me like that in the middle of the night," he whispers, still more than half-asleep, his voice rasp. "Everything okay now, love?"

Sherlock nods yes, curls dragging across John's shoulder, feeling at ease for once in the whole evening. John heard him leave, did not follow him, knowing that he'd need some time alone to think. Maybe he knows him better than Sherlock initially thought. He rolls on his side, letting John spoon him from behind, his chest expanding upon remembering how John just called him.

That's one pet name he can get used to.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, whatever Sherlock thinks in this chapter is totally not my opinion on anything, and even though I thought about his scene with John here for a million times, I'd honestly had such fun writing Irene's bit here.
> 
> I'll be honest with you all, I wanted to write a sex-that-doesn't-work-out scene for like... forever. I took the opportunity here, especially since they're young people new to pretty much everything. :P (Sorry for those who were waiting for anal! But they're not quite there yet... :P) And also, both Irene and John and right here! The usual disclaimer: if ever you're uncomfortable in ANY situation, do talk to your partner, do say no or ask to stop if you need to. Basically, don't be Sherlock. Communication is important!
> 
> Also -- don't worry, what happened here will be discussed later on in the fic. :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and leaving kudos and comments, I love every single one of them! <3


	28. CAPTAIN JOHN WATSON, WILL YOU SHAG ME?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have yourself a bit of rugby John!

John is going to kill Anderson.

"Has anyone seen him?" he asks the others in the locker room, checking his phone. Ten minutes until they have to go out and start getting ready for the match. At this moment, Sherlock is probably already in the stands with Greg, waiting for them.

It's Murray who speaks first. "Hey Cap', Sally just texted, apparently he's sprained his ankle yesterday. He's not going to make it, guys."

"And he couldn't have said that yesterday?" John roars, both hands in his hair. This is bad. This is quite, quite bad. If they don't win this game, they won't qualify for the summer tournament, which they haven't done in years now, and John _terribly_ wants to be the first captain to bring them back on the international scene. Losing Anderson for this game is definitely not good news. They need quick players, and if Anderson is something, he is definitely quick. They could really use him, right now.

John needs to make his decision now. "All right, Smith, you're taking Anderson's place. You better watch out for number 11 out there, he's got one hell of a tackle, but if we stick to the plan we should win this, okay?" He looks over at his team, all dressed up and ready to go out. "Right. Let's go out there and kick their arses," he says, nodding, followed by a few exclamations from his teammates.

The second they're on the field, John feels more calm than ever, knowing that his place is here, with the other guys, fighting together to win the shit out of this. The adrenaline will kick in later, but now he needs to greet the other captain and the referees. Before doing so, John shoots a quick look towards the stands. He knows that Sherlock usually sits in the back, but he can't see anything because of the spotlights blinding his eyes as usual. Too bad — they will meet after the game, anyway, just like last week.

The crowd is starting to realize that he's staring, and soon enough a few cheers erupt from the stands. "CAPTAIN JOHN WATSON, WILL YOU MARRY ME?" a random girl screams from the stands, followed by the cheers and laughter from her other friends, and John laughs, bowing his head a bit to thank her for the attention. He's still not entirely getting it: he has always been well liked but never really popular, at least not since being  made captain of the uni's rugby team.

"CAPTAIN JOHN WATSON, WILL YOU SHAG ME?" The stand erupts in laughter, because the voice is clearly male, and John is probably the only one to recognize it as Greg's. He starts laughing too, and bows his head again, playing along, which earns him another round of laughter.

"Captain Watson? We're ready to start."

"Right," John whispers, and goes over to greet the other captain, who's approximately twice as large as him, and then goes on to shake the hand of the referees.

His team gets into place, and when the referee blows the whistle, they start.

John loves rugby. There's something about it, playing with the team in a strategic effort to pass the ball forward that appeals to him. He knows that the strategies he plans each week and work out with the other blokes during practice are good: he's got the mind for it. And once he's playing, there's nothing else that matters.

After a few minutes, Murray marks the first three points of the game by doing quite an impressive try. Minutes later, it's John's turn, and their team continues to strike point after point, even though their opponent keeps the score pretty close.

During the halfway break, John has no time to check for Sherlock as he gathers his team around him, to drink a bit of water and to discuss the strategy for the next part of the match. "We've got this," he ends up saying, even though the game isn't already won, but he knows the lads need a bit of encouragement at that point (not that he wants them to relax too much either). If they keep playing like during the first part, they should win, but he also knows that the other team will double their intensity. It's really a match they can't lose.

They get back on the field, and this time, it's the other team that starts with the ball. By the time there's ten minutes left, the score is nearly a draw, with the other team slightly in front of them, and John starts to worry that they might not actually win this. 

Murray throws him the ball, and John breaks into a sprint, eyes on the white line a few dozen meters in front of him. He vaguely registers Warren on his other side, but he's too guarded by number 4 from the other team that a throw to him would be too risky. Just as he's about to pass the ball back to Murray, he feels another player catching him by the legs.

John lands face first in the dirt, the ball uncomfortably digging in his stomach, his hands still under him. He tries to wiggle his way out of the tackle, but before he can do anything about it, another body slams into him, and he distinctively feels a knee hitting the back of his head — blood starts pouring everywhere.

Without much resistance, the ball is taken from his hands and as his opponents leave him behind to start running in the opposite direction, John rolls himself on his back, passing a hand on his face and registering that the blood is coming from his nose. A few gasps and boos echoes from the stands.

"Hey, sir!" Murray yells over to the referee, as he's standing beside John, game forgotten. "Are you all right?" he asks him, as the referee blows the whistle.

"Aw, shit," John grunts, trying to sit up, his head dizzy with the blow he's just received.

Murray gives him a hand and helps him get on his feet. "Are you all right?" he repeats.

"Yeah, yeah, just give me a moment."

He realizes that the game has stopped, and that a medic is jogging towards him. He grunts again, holding his nose with one hand. In the distance, he vaguely registers that Garcia is arguing with the referee, probably about according them a penalty for foul play, but John knows that the cause is lost.

The medic flashes a light in his eyes. "I don't have a concussion!" John protests, trying to get away.

"Watson," the referee says, "do you need to go on the bench or can we go on?"

"I'm fine," he says, moving away from the medic. It will hurt like hell tomorrow, but there's not even ten minutes left to the game, and they _have_ to win this. Plus his nose has stopped bleeding, so there is really no reason at all to let his team down right now.

He gets back to his position, way too concentrated on hearing the crowd starting to cheer his return on the field. John eyes Smith, on his right. The whistle blows again.

"Come on," he grumbles under his breath. "We can win this."

Matthews gets the ball from the other's team number 2, passes to Garcia, who loses it to their opponents' leader, who breaks through their defences and starts running in the opposite direction. Before John can turn on his heels, Murray tackles the captain to the ground, and from what John can see, Garcia gets the ball again.

John runs towards the left, where there's no one guarding him, and according to the strategy they had put in place before the game, Garcia throws him the rugby.

Every single cell in John's body screams to him to run, and so he does, breaking in a sprint, seeing how the field in front of him is free of any of his opponents… until he nearly gets tackled down again. Quickly, he passes the ball to Smith, praying internally that Smith somehow channels Anderson's speed if they want this to work out.

Smith sprints like his life depends on it, John at his side, numbers 8 and 3 after them. There's only a few meters left, and just before Smith gets tackled, he swings the ball to John, who runs, runs, runs… and slams the rugby on the other side of the line.

The whistle blows. John drops in the grass, rolling on his back, chest heaving but with a smile on his face. The crowd goes insane: if the other team doesn't mark any points in the last three minutes that remain, they will win. Smith offers him a hand to get up, patting on his back at the same time.

"We fucking did it," he tells John while they're jogging back to the other side of the field. Three minutes, John thinks, three minutes and they're going to win this.

Those three minutes pass so slow that it feels like a hundred years. John runs back and forth, his team doing everything to keep the ball and delay the moment that it will pass to the other team, who does everything in its power to gain the few points back.

The last whistle finally blows, and suddenly John can't see or breathe properly, his teammates attacking him from all fronts, ruffling his hair, climbing on his back, hugging and yelling at the top of their lungs. They're going to the national tournament this summer, John thinks while Garcia suffocates him, an elbow around his neck.

"We fucking did it!" Smith repeats, and John claps his back.

"That was one hell of a sprint, Smith!" he replies.

"That was one hell of a goal, Captain," Murray says as John is manhandled on a pair of shoulders, his teammates literally lifting him off the ground, chanting together.

John laughs, steadying himself as not to fall and get a nosebleed for the second time this evening, and eyes the stands as they're approaching the field's entry point, scanning the crowd with the hope of seeing Sherlock waiting for him. His heart squeezes in his chest when he can't distinguish the man's silhouette in the last row where he usually sits.

Then: "JOHN! Over here!" Greg's voice emerges from the crowd, and finally John sees them, just on the other side of the fence. Greg's waving at him and simultaneously pointing at a sheepish Sherlock just beside him. John is pretty sure that if Greg had a big neon arrow sign he'd would hold it over Sherlock's head — although Sherlock doesn't need one, because John sees no one else when he sets his eyes on him.

He doesn't know nor remember how, but suddenly he's back on his feet again. Everything that counts right now is reducing the distance between him and Sherlock, because John's _fucking_ ecstatic and the best way to celebrate is to press the smile on his face against the smile on Sherlock's face.

And it's exactly what he does.

Pulls down that gorgeous face down by the scarf around his neck. Smash his lips on Sherlock's mouth. Feel him stiffen under his touch, but not retract. Feel him relax, one of his hands fisting the side of John's dirty tee shirt. _Did you see that?_ John wants to say. _I — we fucking won!_ He feels like Sherlock gets it anyway, from the sound he makes low in his throat, buried under the cheering and the whistling in the distance John doesn't bother listening to.

The kiss must have lasted less than ten seconds before John steps back, eyes lost on Sherlock's face before his attention is caught by a smear of red over Sherlock's upper lip. "Shit, sorry," he whispers as he gently wipes the blood away with his thumb.

Just as he's done, Sherlock catches his wrist in his hand, nodding towards something over John's shoulder. "John… I believe you just publicly outed yourself."

"Ah," John gapes, a connection somehow lost in his brain. He didn't think about this — he didn't think about this because this, lov— kissing Sherlock is just so goddamn _easy_. "It's a good thing that I don't care, then," he replies with a smile.

Sherlock nods again in a silent agreement, and it's John's turn to grab his wrist as he turns around.

All the guys that were lifting him (more than half of the team, then), is staring back at him. There are a few curious people in the crowd that stopped going down the stairs, looking back over their shoulders. Most of them had simply kept on walking, unfazed by what was happening. Smith looks as if he had just received the rugby on his temple, Garcia like he's just won the lottery (or maybe a considerable bet, John wagers), and he vaguely registers that Murray was the one whistling at them.

"Err—" John starts, "lads, this is Sherlock, we're—" what, whatwhatwhatwhatexactlyarewe?answeransweranswer! "dating!" _Good choice, Watson_ , John mentally pats himself. He shoots a look at Sherlock, who's staring back at the team, chin up, as if silently daring them to challenge him.

Murray is the first to break the silence. "So you're the one John's been texting with nonstop at every single party lately!" 

"That… would be me, indeed," Sherlock replies, not a single muscle in his body moving apart from his mouth. John wonders if this particular situation is making Sherlock uncomfortable, but then again, he's not much different on meeting anyone else for the first time.

"Holy shit! And I thought Johnny here was starting to think I was boring!"

"That definitely answers some questions," Garcia chimes in, elbowing Murray.

John is about to answer just as Matthews jogs from the gym's door towards them. "Guys! Are you coming or what? We're going to be late at McMurphy's if we don't leave now — he's promised free drinks on the house if we won!"

"We're coming," Smith says, "John was just presenting us to his date."

Matthews stops, eyes Sherlock up and down. "He can come too if he wants, John, there's enough space for everybody. Just, _hurry_!"

John looks at Sherlock, who imperceptibly shakes his head.

"Nah, we'll be fine. He's taking me out anyway." John can nearly hear Sherlock frown.

"All right, whatever, but you're going to miss the party of the year."

"Just go and have fun! I'll see you all at practice."

Just as he thinks they're going to insist, Greg pats his head on Murray's shoulder. "Come on, or we'll never make it before closing time. By the way, you still have to beat me at last week's new game."

It's what finally sets the team in motion, walking towards the gym and leaving John and Sherlock behind.

"I'm taking you out?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes," John says, licking his lips. "Angelo's. I'd say it's pretty convenient for a date, don't you think?"

The corner of Sherlock's lips stretches in one of John's favourite smiles. "I'd say so, too."

"Perfect. I'll just have a quick shower and we'll be on our way."

 

***

 

"Does your nose always bleed so much?"

Sherlock is sitting in front of him, his face nicely illuminated by the candle between them. Angelo's definitely _is_ the perfect place for a date, John thinks, as it has good Italian food, and a very generous owner indulging in bear hugs with detectives who saves them from prison, apparently.

"No, don't answer that," Sherlock adds, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. "It actually does. I'd estimate twenty-two times…"

"Since I was born? That's a wild guess!"

"I never guess."

John laughs, picking some pasta with his fork. "I don't know. I haven't counted, so we don't know if you're right."

"Or we could assume that I am."

He giggles again, picking his glass of wine, looking at the small miracle happening before his eyes: Sherlock _actually_ eating something. And not sewing an overcooked cafeteria steak, for once. They talk a bit about Sherlock's experiment, and gush about John's fabulous last-minute goal during the game.

They're teetering around the subject, and John finally decides to speak out. "I— sorry for earlier, by the way. I know that we said we wouldn't go public already, but I was just so happy— I didn't think on the spot."

"It's quite alright John, these are your teammates, so it was your decision to make."

John hums. "I'd rather have us talk about it beforehand. Although it went well, don't you think?"

Sherlock cocks his head from one side to the other, hesitating, which makes John frown. "Yes, I suppose so. They seem to be relatively correct people, but I don't think I'd mix well with them."

John nods. The guys were clearly ready to invite Sherlock at the party and get to know him better — they always do when someone arrives with a new girlfriend or boyfriend, but John is glad that no one did force them into attending. He doesn't want to make Sherlock uncomfortable, and anyway, he'd take a date like that over a drunken beer-pong competition with a pissed Murray anytime.

"We're dating," Sherlock says, and it's not a question.

Oh. "Yeah, that's what I said. I know that— we agreed we're together, but that might have been big news to break to them. As I said, I wanted us to talk about it first." He wants to ask him. He so wants to ask him right now if he wouldn't mind going public, telling everyone, posting it everywhere, screaming it over rooftops if it's what they need for the world to understand that they're together. "Would you mind, though… Going public?"

Sherlock sets his fork on the side of his plate with carefulness, clearly thinking everything through. "John, I— I'd rather have our relationship stay private at the moment."

John gapes a bit, not understanding. Wasn't Sherlock the one insisting on the boyfriend label the first night they were together? "I thought— I thought you wanted to. Is there something wrong? Something I did?" He thinks through tonight's events. Were his rugby teammates too much for Sherlock? Maybe John outing himself showed Sherlock the reality of it, and now that he understands what it entails, he's backing off. John swallows, lost.

"Don't be an idiot, John!" Sherlock says, leaning in. "This has nothing to do about you. It's just— I would need to tell my parents first. My… brother." Sherlock stares at a point on the table. John wants to reach in and hold his hand, but Sherlock had removed both of them from the table. "I'm not… very good at expressing myself in such a situation. I _like_ being with you, John. This is the best thing— I— yes. Could we just… keep on doing what we've been doing and not change anything? For now, at least."

John considerably relaxes on his seat. "Jesus. I thought you were breaking up with me."

"No! Of course not!"

"It's fine, Sherlock," he says, "it's all fine. We can wait if you'd rather. I don't think we can go back and erase the lads' minds, but they will keep their mouths shut." The number of secrets that has gone through the team just shows how they're spilling-proof. "And you'll tell your parents whenever you're ready too, of course."

John knows nearly nothing about Sherlock family, apart from the fact that his mother makes astonishingly good banana bread and that they knew Sherlock is gay from early on in his childhood. So this has nothing to do with coming out. Maybe Sherlock just wants to break the news first out of politeness, although it doesn't sound like Sherlock at all.

Whatever he's lying about, John doesn't mind. He believes him if he says there's nothing wrong with him — with them. Sherlock smiles at him, and suddenly John remembers about Friday last week, when they had tried intercourse with rather unsuccessful results. It didn't seem dramatic at the time, but now John wonders if he's underestimated the significance of what happened then. But perhaps they've gone through enough serious conversation for the night, so he'd rather not bother Sherlock with that here, at a restaurant on a date.

In any case, the dessert is coming. And Sherlock's foot is becoming quite adventurous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming close to the end, friends, only four remaining chapters (counting a small epilogue) to go! I promise you that there will be a super happy ending, of course, once they figure out how to communicate as a couple. ;) As always, thank you for your comments and kudos! I love hearing you about our boys! <333


	29. Your stuff in my hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or Cis Men VS Pads and Tampons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay! You're the best readers! <33
> 
> Even though there have been some clues about that, I've added the tag Trans Character to the fic. There's a trigger warning for this chapter concerning body disphoria: a trans man has menstruations. If you want more details, you can always pm me on tumblr or in the comments. :)

"Holy shit! Sorry— sorry!"

"Quite all right, John," Sherlock replies. "Would you mind…?"

"No, of course not, sorry!" John gets off the bed, padding towards the bathroom, offering Sherlock a nice view of his naked (and very sated) body. "Here," John says, still heaving a bit, handing him a flannel Sherlock uses to towel his face. "Sorry," he repeats once more, "got a bit carried away here."

"You did," Sherlock says, tugging on John's arm in a clear invitation to lie down on top of him. "But as I said, it's quite all right."

John lowers himself on him, combing one hand through Sherlock's hair. It's been more than a week since their disastrous try at anal sex, and neither of them had brought it up again. They did have quite a lot of all sorts of other amazing sex since then, and Sherlock's worries nearly died down. He still thinks that John would like to go all the way (and he would like to, also, if he wasn't so irrationally nervous about it all the time). He can never really shut the thought that at some point John will be bored with him, and search for a more satisfying relationship by dating women again. Plus, Mary could discover the same thing about Irene, that it's fine with her, but not as fine as it was when she was with John. They had sex once, Sherlock knows. The full penetration and whatnot. If a lesbian can do it, then why can't _he_? His lack of experience is annoying. If it's annoying to him, it must be annoying to John, who always needs to be around to teach him how to actually behave in a relationship. How to roll a condom on, for God's sake — there isn't anything less sexy and more embarrassing than _that_.

He doesn't say anything, letting John lazily kiss his worries away for now. They just had great sex. They lie there for a few minutes, breathing and kissing, before Sherlock turns his head towards the nightstand. "Mike texted four times and called twice."

"Mmh, really? Didn't hear that."

"Because I was doing a good job."

John leans in, kissing the smug smile off Sherlock's face. "Indeed you were. Sorry again."

"Will you stop apologizing already? And you should answer Mike, it's an emergency."

John frowns. He's absolutely adorable when clueless, Sherlock thinks, and kisses him again. "Honestly, John, it's after midnight, he must know that there's a high probability of us sleeping or doing what we were doing, so he wouldn't call unless it was an emergency."

"Doing what we were doing," John says with a wink, rolling over Sherlock. Sherlock never has any issue using crude words to describe sex, coitus, copulation, whatever the preferred term is, but never when describing _their_ sex life. John teases him endlessly about it, always implying that Sherlock is specifically shy about it. It's ludicrous, really. Sherlock, _shy_?

"Budge up!" John extends his hand to reach for his phone, and frowns when he reads the latest messages he's received. Bad news, then.

"Do you mind?" John asks Sherlock.

"Go ahead."

John sighs, rolling off Sherlock and sitting up on the bed, composing Mike's number on the screen. "Mike? Yeah, I'm with Sherlock right now. Is everything all right? Okay, wait a sec." John looks at his phone, pressing on the speaker for Sherlock to hear the conversation as well. Mike just asked him too, Sherlock deduces.

"Sorry to bother you, guys," Mike's voice echoes from the phone.

"Quite all right," Sherlock answers, wondering if he's going to spend the night reassuring everyone around him.

"We were done, anyway," John says, and Sherlock elbows him in his sides, while Mike laughs a shaky giggle. (Nervous, then.)

"You know I wouldn't call, but Stella's at her grandmother's funeral in India, and I have a bit of a situation here. Err— I don't know how to put this… I'm… bleeding."

John nearly jumps out of the bed. "How?! You're hurt? Where are you bleeding?" Sherlock smiles, seeing John square his shoulders, his attention focusing entirely on the phone. Such a doctor already.

"I'm not— hurt. I— I'm menstruating."

John shoots him a quick concerned look. That's not good, Sherlock thinks, not good at all.

"Did you forget your shot this week?" John asks to the phone.

"I took it. I really don't know why— and I— I really can't go out like this but I would need some… supplies."

Sherlock closes his eyes, concentrating. "There's a twenty-four-hour Tesco down the road. We could be at your flat under… thirty-six minutes if we take the Underground."

"Right, we're going to be there in half-an-hour, Mike," John says.

"Thirty-six minutes," Sherlock corrects.

Mike goes on thanking them and thanking them until the call ends. John gets off the bed, searching for his pants, as Sherlock does the same and starts to get dressed.

"You don't have to come with me, you know," John says.

Sherlock frowns. Is John telling him that he'd rather be alone? "I don't mind."

"No, I mean, it's late, you might want to go to sleep."

And let John go for the night after the amazing sex they've had? Not a chance. "I'm coming."

"Mmmh— that's the second time you're saying that tonight," John says, tugging his jeans on, leaning in to kiss Sherlock. 

"Shut up," Sherlock answers, punctuating it with the kiss John is waiting for. "Let's go." 

 

***

 

Of all things, after that amazing dinner at Angelo's, Sherlock didn't expect to end up at the 24hrs Tesco after one in the morning looking for pads in the personal hygiene section. Which is good anyway, because Sherlock hates boring and predictable.

"Right. Err—" John says, considering the wall of pads, tampons and other products he never used in his life.

Even the harsh LED lights above them can't do John any injustice. He's looking amazing as ever, although confused, sporting fantastic post-sex hair, as they didn't have the time to make it to the loo. Sherlock steps in closer, burrowing his hand in the pocket of John's jacket. There's a hole in it, and he pensively sticks his finger there, looking at the different products in front of him.

"Do you know—" John begins, before Sherlock cuts him off.

"How would I know! I thought _you_ knew."

John frowns, looking at him. "Why on Earth—"

"Didn't you ever buy that kind of stuff for your girlfriends?"

"Haven't you ever experimented on the absorbing qualities of tampons or—"

"Why would I ever do—"

"Gentlemen, can I help you?"

They both turn their heads at the same time as a woman walks towards them, a questioning look on her face. She's twenty-six, Sherlock deduces, finishing her studies in pharmacology, working night shifts here to help pay her rent until she can find a job in her field. Has two cats and a long-term partner she recently broke up with.

John breaks the awkward silence first. "We're looking for— err— pads."

"Oh, for your girlfriend?" she asks, smiling, fingers playing with the end of her ponytail.

Sherlock scoots closer to John. The woman finally registers that he has his hand shoved in John's pocket. _Maybe_ she should drop the flirting at this point. Or do they need to start kissing in front of her to make things clearer?

"No, for a friend, actually."

"Do you know what brand you're searching for?"

John shrugs, taking his phone out. "Wait, I'll text him."

The woman's eyebrow disappear high under her fringe, but she doesn't pass any comment. She better not, Sherlock thinks, although he can imagine that she probably doesn't get a lot of gay couples shopping that kind of personal hygiene items. Whatever. He fidgets a bit more with the hole in John's pocket, looking at his concentrated face while he texts Mike.

There's something about John's expression that makes a funny warm feeling spread inside Sherlock's chest. John Watson is at a Tesco with him at one in the morning, buying hygiene products for his friend when most men wouldn't even want to come close to it for their girlfriends. John Watson is an utterly good person. He is _Sherlock's_ good person.

And of all realization that has been made at Tesco late at night, Sherlock understands that he just might be in love with the man.

In love with John Watson.

It should be terrifying or exhilarating at once, but only a wave of peacefulness washes over him. He stands there, watching John trying to contact Mike, typing with only one finger, even though Sherlock has tried teaching him to use both thumbs. _I love him_ , he thinks. _I just do, I love him_.

"Any brand should be fine, as long as it's for heavy flow."

The woman nods, showing them a few different brands until John picks a few of them (better more than less, he thinks). Once that is done, they end up walking down different alleys, throwing in masses of candy, chocolate, tea and a few bottles of fizzy drinks down in their cart, Sherlock deducing what Mike would like best. He tries not to think too much about his latest epiphany, but still can't stop the smile from creeping up on his face when he turns and sees John scanning through cereal boxes, one hand rubbing back on his own neck, yawning through the remnants of what must be his afterglow.

At the cash, another young woman greets them, shooting weird looks at Sherlock while scanning the plethora of items they've decided to buy. She stammers while saying the price, blushing at him when he gives her his card, his other hand is still shoved in John's pocket.

He can sense an aura of possessiveness radiating all around John when he steps forward a bit, clearing his throat. "Would you stop fingering my hole? You're making it looser."

Sherlock's jaw falls to the floor. The cashier makes a little squealing sound. Slowly, Sherlock retracts his hand from John's pocket, and the poor girl finally seems to understand what John was talking about. She turns her back to them, face beet-red, to get their receipt.

Sherlock is still slightly taken aback: usually it's him that says the unspeakable in public, not caring enough, but apparently jealousy can make John inappropriate as well.

Still, he apologizes, when the cashier hands him the receipt. "No offense," he says, taking Sherlock's hand just to hammer the point home. Sherlock certainly doesn't mind.

"None taken," she says, her eyes still fixated on Sherlock, but not looking at him directly in his eyes, but somewhere above. "It's just that you… err— never mind."

"Cheers," John bids her goodbye, frowning a bit.

They take their bags and leave quickly, John walking away at a quick pace, looking around as if someone is waiting in the dark to jump on Sherlock at the first occasion and ravish him. Too bad they've already got plans, Sherlock thinks, feeling slightly tight in his trousers.

 

***

 

They make it to Mike's (and John's) ten minutes later than they originally said they would, because of the Tesco ordeal. Mike is still in the bathroom, and John hands him the four packs of pads through the door, while Sherlock opens the new tea package and puts the kettle on.

" _Four_?!" Mike exclaims from the other side of the door. "You're both useless," he grunts. "Maybe Stella will take the rest of it."

Sherlock doesn't hear the rest of the conversation, opening different drawers to find the sugar. He  is sure it was in the big cupboard near the fridge, but it's not there anymore.

He opens the island's cupboard, ducking his head, eyes still searching for it, when Mike emerges from the bathroom. He looks at Sherlock.

Then he starts laughing. Hard. _Really_ hard.

John frowns, his gaze shifting from Mike to Sherlock. He bites his lower lip, visibly trying not to laugh himself.

"What?" Sherlock asks, staring down at his clothes, which seem fine. "What's going on?"

Mike breathes in, trying to control himself, and wipes his hand over his damp eyes. "You have… stuff in your hair."

Sherlock turns in the kitchen, trying to locate a mirror to understand the situation. "Stuff? What kind of stuff?"

John steps forward, hesitating. "Err— _my_ stuff?"

"Oh my God! Oh God!" The realization dawns upon him. "I was walking around with— Why didn't you tell me?" he snaps at John, who had reached for a flannel and started cleaning the side of Sherlock's head.

"I didn't see! You were on my left the whole evening. Although this does explain some things…"

Sherlock lets him clean his hair, absolutely mortified. That's why the cashier kept staring at him, she was not flirting, she was just finding him gross for going outside with the remnants of of his sex life _stuck in his hair_.

"Sorry," John repeats, kissing Sherlock on his nose once he's done. "Though it does give you a bit of a disheveled look," he adds with a wink.

Sherlock elbows him, and John protests with a chuckle and another kiss. Sherlock has been making a fool of himself for the whole evening — now he can't even go back to that Tesco, should the employees be the same as tonight's. Although he could probably deduce their schedule, to be on the safe side.

The kettle beeps and Sherlock turns his back to John, who retrieves three cups from the cupboard.

"Do you mind spending the night here?" John asks him in a whisper, sliding one arm around Sherlock's waist as he stirs the sugar in two of the cups.

"Of course not," Sherlock says with a frown, not understanding. It wouldn't be the first time spending the night in John's room. It's his flat too, after all.

"Just wanted to make sure. After tonight's date, it was supposed to be just the two of us, you know? Didn't want to disappoint you."

Sherlock swallows, not entirely sure how to put this in words. As if it was selfish of John to help a friend out with a serious problem. "You could never disappoint me, John."

John smiles, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You're amazing."

Sherlock wants to answer that agreeing to this is not being amazing. Being amazing is doing what John is currently doing, making sure that both his boyfriend and his friend are all right and happy with the change of plans. John certainly is amazing, and Sherlock is certainly, undoubtedly, definitely, totally _in love with him_.

"I—" he starts.

"Guys, movie's starting," Mike calls them from the sofa in the other room.

John jokingly rolls his eyes, kissing Sherlock again, quite audibly. "Gross!" Mike shoots from the other room, laughing.

John is the first to break the kiss, to Sherlock's dismay, to throw a chocolate bar at Mike. "Jesus!" he sighs, although it's all in good fashion, and takes Sherlock by the hand. That's quite nice. "C'mon, Mr. Bond is waiting for us," he adds with a wink.

Spy movies are not Sherlock's favorite, so he sits quietly beside John while him and Mike exchange comments on the actors and the plot. The few times Sherlock intervenes is to share his observations about details that are off. At some point, John moves his hand from Sherlock's thigh to encircle his shoulders, and Sherlock lets him, putting his head on John's shoulder, before feeling John's cheek against his hair. They could stay like that forever, Sherlock thinks, and he would be entirely content. This, right now, is the perfect status quo. John doesn't need to know about the new development regarding Sherlock's feelings. It could ruin things entirely… Sherlock is sure that no one can fall in love in a matter of few weeks and admit it freely without sounding like a dependent creep. He will say it when John will.

Both Mike and John fall asleep on the sofa before the movie is finished, leaving Sherlock alone to his thoughts. When the credits roll, he takes his phone from his pocket to check the time: it's past three in the morning. There's another notification, this time, for the Scrabble game John and him still play together from time to time, but not recently because they were both well too busy with school, rugby and experiments (and each other).

It says:

**Words With Friends:** It's been 201 hours since John Watson is waiting for you to make a move.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suspense, suspense! We're soon to the end, but there's still so much to unpack! As always, thank you for reading and commenting, you're the best! <3


	30. Netflix & chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay this update took! As said on tumblr, I've been working more than 80hrs per week for the last month and a half, and the only times I got home was to get some sleep -- unfortunately no writing could be done! I've finished at the job this Saturday, and so here is the penultimate chapter to this fic: only one left, and one tiny epilogue to go! I promise the next updates will be quicker!
> 
> In this chapter, our two idiots try to be less idiotic! We'll see if that works... ;)

John is handling the rather old and explosive microwave at 221b's when he hears Sherlock calling his name from the living room. "John?"

"Yeah?" he hums, over the microwave's noise. They really ought to get a new one, he thinks, wondering how many dead animals Sherlock exposed to the radiation in there.

"What's Netflix and chill?"

John stops in his tracks, hand raised towards the microwave, which beeps three times. The first thing that he thinks about is: how does Sherlock not know what is Netflix and chill? The second one, and most important: why is he asking?

He retrieves his plate from the microwave, setting it down on the table, and enters the living room. Sherlock is lying down on the sofa, frowning at his phone. "Where did you hear that?" John asks.

"Some stranger with a limited vocabulary asked me if I was interested in that type of activity with him," Sherlock says, sitting up on the couch to let John sit down beside him.

Well, that's not good at all. A random man asking _his_ boyfriend if he is interested to have sex with him. Asking Sherlock, who, of all people, doesn't know what that even _means_? "What did you answer?"

Sherlock kicks his leg, giving him a look as if he's the dumbest person on Earth. "What do you think? I'm not an idiot John, of course, I refused. I don't even _have_ Netflix."

John starts breathing again: why was he thinking that Sherlock would be so keen on cheating on him? They're together, for fuck's sake, of course, Sherlock wouldn't cheat. Certainly not with someone who flirts with lame lines from 2016, anyway.

"So," Sherlock prompts him again, "what _does_ it mean?"

"It's er— a pick-up line."

"For a date, you mean," Sherlock asks.

"Something like that, yeah," John says, eyebrows up, his tone clearly covering the implied portion of it.

Sherlock looks at his feet, considering something. He looks utterly kissable like that, in John's opinion. "We could do that."

"What?"

"Netflix and chill. Do keep up, John."

John stares at him. "Like — right now?"

"Why not?" Sherlock asks, taking the remote from the coffee table and turning on the TV.

"But it's the middle of the day!"

"I saw that there was a documentary on bees, earlier. Should be interesting."

John stares at him, not understanding. Nothing wrong with Sherlock wanting to have sex right here, right now, of course, but he is never _that_ obvious about it. John guesses it's something that Sherlock will grow more comfortable with time. The contrast is quite curious: for someone who's so direct and shameless about everything, he still has traces of shyness when it comes to sex, as if they're the only ones doing it and have to keep it a secret. It's certainly not because John's a man, which John knows Sherlock never had a problem with in the first place, quite the opposite, actually. It's just something they never talk about. John doesn't press the matter, because he doesn't think that there is something to talk about anyway, and it might only make Sherlock uncomfortable.

But it seems like today's the day things are changing.

John bites on his lower lip, glancing at Sherlock who already seems engrossed in his television program about bees. That's not quite the sexy set up John had imagined, but again, he wouldn't refuse, and there's definitely something attracting about Sherlock being so utterly fascinated by a subject, even though John would rather like the attention to be on him.

John wiggles closer, passing an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock mellows against his touch, but doesn't look back. The documentary narrator goes on about the different processes involved in honey-making. Mh, John thinks, appropriate.

He starts tracing circles on Sherlock's shoulder, before leaning in to kiss that delectable spot on his neck. For the first time, Sherlock glances at him, from the corner of his eyes, but soon enough his attention goes back to the documentary.

Is he playing hard to get? Maybe Sherlock _wants_ to be seduced all over again. Is that even a kink? Well, nothing's like a little bit of a challenge. And honestly, John has already won.

He turns a bit more towards Sherlock, working his free hand under Sherlock's shirt, caressing the bare skin just above his trousers. He goes in for Sherlock's neck again, but just before he can reach, Sherlock clicks his tongue, slightly irritated. "John, stop distracting me. I'm trying to watch that."

John blinks, instantly retracting his hand. Could it be that…? "Sherlock, what do you think Netflix and chill _means_?"

"As I previously stated, it's a date: watch a movie and relax. I know how _words_ work, John."

Ah. John wants to hit himself in the face. It's not a mystery that Sherlock isn't great at innuendos (however dumb and useless they are, in John's opinion, especially since they're well past the _dating_ point in their relationship). "Sherlock," he starts, biting his lip, "Netflix and chill is how people ask each other for sex."

John considered that Sherlock would be a bit surprised, astonished, even, from that revelation, but nothing could prepare him to what happens next: Sherlock stands up, throwing the remote back on the sofa, and stomps off down the corridor before shutting the door of his room in a loud bang.

John stands up, flabbergasted. What the hell just happened? He follows down the corridor, and knocks on the door. "Sherlock?" he calls. "Sherlock, can I come in?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, come on, open the door."

"No," comes the muffled answer. "You don't want to be with me right now."

John shakes his head. "Christ, that's not true. Can I come in?" He reaches for the doorknob, which is unlocked. "I'm coming in," he announces, whether Sherlock wants it or not. They need to talk.

Sherlock is sprawled on his back on the bed, face dramatically hidden in the crook of his elbow. "Go away," he asks John. He's not crying, just sounding very irritated. With John? With himself?

John sits on the bed, wanting to reach for Sherlock's arm, but deciding that it's maybe not the right time to touch him. "What did I do wrong?" he asks, worried that he made Sherlock uncomfortable by making advances in the middle of the sitting room.

"Nothing," Sherlock answers. "I'm useless."

John frowns. "You're not. Look, if it's because you didn't understand that pick-up line, don't you worry about that. It's lame, anyway. We don't need that stupid excuse to ask each other for sex… or to watch documentaries," he adds with a smile, trying to make the situation less intense. Not that it is, in the first place. It's only a misunderstanding, not the end of the world — although it does seem like it to Sherlock.

"It's not like we've been having real sex anyway," Sherlock mumbles.

What? John's eyebrows go up. "Well, it felt real enough for me…" John says, a bit stung. What on Earth is Sherlock talking about? Unless… Oh. "Is this about what happened the other day? The day we tried… you know… anal sex?"

God, talking about it is so unsexy. But John feels like they need to clear the issue now, especially if it's been bothering Sherlock all this time. Sherlock's lack of answer is an answer in itself. So it has been bothering him.

"But why?" John asks. "I mean, we've been having pretty… good sex, or is it just me? I thought you liked it too." Is Sherlock implying that he never enjoyed it? That would truly be a major issue, John thinks, if for all this time Sherlock had been uncomfortable with that level of intimacy between them. But he can swear that Sherlock seemed to enjoy it. He would even start kissing him first, sometimes. Or did he do it only to please John? God, he's starting to feel sick.

"Oh, I do," Sherlock answers, and for the first time a smile stretches his lips. "It's quite… phenomenal." Okay, John can breathe again. "But from your past relationships— I deduced that you enjoy, you know… _penetrating_."

"You really make it sound as if it's my only hobby," John says, half-joking, and Sherlock blindly throws a pillow at him. So this is what it is about. Sherlock worrying that he's not… a woman? That John would somehow tire of him if they don't have "real" sex? "Listen, Sherlock, can you answer me honestly on this, without caring about what I think on the matter? Do you want to have that kind of sex at all?"

There's a moment of hesitations before Sherlock answers. "Maybe— yes. I _do_ want it, it's just that—"

"It's a big step, I get that."

"One day. Not now."

"Not now," John repeats. "And if it wasn't clear enough before, you know, we don't necessarily have to do it the way you're thinking of. I could go… first. You know. If that something you want, too."

"Oh," Sherlock answers, visibly not aware that this was a possibility.

"Sherlock, I wasn't asking you to wear a condom just for the fun of it," John points out kindly, and he notices Sherlock's cheeks blushing all over again, his eyes still hidden under his arm. John leans back, turning on his front, so he can lie down beside Sherlock. "And yes, it's something I'd want to do too. Either way, really. Or never at all, if it's something that we decide we're not interested in, in the end. I really don't mind. I know you think that's something I want because I've been with girls, before, but honestly, Sherlock, none of these past relationships compare with what I have with you. And as for myself, being bi doesn't mean I'm never satisfied, it means that I'm equally satisfied with whoever I am with. To be honest, you're the most satisfying person I've ever met, so that's that," he adds, with a smile that transfers to Sherlock's face, too.

"And you know," John keeps going, "it's not like having anal sex is some kind of passing exam to be in a successful gay relationship. I've… read that some couples aren't interested in that at all, and that's fine too. We've been having sex in loads of different ways, and I absolutely love that. Making it all about penetration is a bit like wanting our relationship to be heterosexual, which it isn't in the first place. You understand what I mean, love?"

He doesn't want Sherlock to feel like he's lecturing him, or anything like that, but they do need to communicate better. John has been entirely satisfied with every aspect of their relationship, and he needs Sherlock to understand that.

Sherlock nods. "You keep calling me that," he says, changing the subject.

"Calling you what? Love?" John vaguely remembers saying the term a few days ago, when he was half-asleep. Does Sherlock remember that too?

"Yes."

"Well, it's because I do. Love you, that is."

There's a moment of silence. Shit. Did he say it too soon? Sherlock lifts his arm from his eyes, staring back. "I… do, too."

"Say it, then," John teases, leaning over him.

Sherlock grins, wiggling closer. "I love you. There. Happy?"

"Mmh, _very_." He leans in for a kiss, to which Sherlock answers, softly kissing back, his hand holding the back of John's neck.

After a while, John breaks the kiss, lowering himself on Sherlock's shoulder, nesting the side of his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "If you still want to publicly announce our relationship, I think that this would be an appropriate time to do so."

"I'd like that, yes," John answers, "only if you're sure that you want to." Now John understands why Sherlock changed his mind about it, earlier in the month. Now that the minor confidence issue has been resolved, there's nothing else standing in their way. Well, except…

"Even with your father?"

"He isn't on social media. And he'll know one day or another, anyway. I don't want to hide anymore."

Sherlock hums, looking at the ceiling, and John feels his hand tracing circles on his back. He loves it, just lying on the bed with his man, not doing anything but talking about the future and the possibilities. His man. The man he _loves_. God, he couldn't be more content, happier.

"I thought about writing the case for my blog," Sherlock says. "You know, the first case we worked on together. That could be a good time to announce it."

"But your blog is more about your research," John counters. "Let me write it. I could even start a blog about the cases we solve."

Sherlock nods. "You're right. You're way better at this than I am."

"Where does _that_ come from?"

"I've seen your writing assignments from secondary school, John. _Quite_ the romantic writer."

"Says the man who wants to immortalise our adventures in writing," John says, with a wink.

"Shut up. Just write it," Sherlock counters. "Find a silly title. Something like _The Pub Stalker_."

John laughs. " _Panic at the Disco_. Quite literally."

"I don't get it."

"You wouldn't. It's a band. _The Mayfly Man_?" he suggests, and Sherlock nods his chin, considering. "Talking about stalkers… That case wasn't even the first case we worked on." Sherlock frowns, not understanding. "Don't you remember the _case_ you were working on when you accidentally liked my picture from three years ago? What was it, again?"

" _A Study in the Mind of the Average Male University Student_ ," Sherlock says, against himself, this time not denying that he was indeed stalking John.

John giggles. "That's it. _A Study in the Mind of the Average Male University Student_. Deserves to be first on the blog, don't you think?"

"Shut up," Sherlock repeats, shoving another pillow in John's face. "Just write it."

"Anything you ask, love."

Yes, really. Anything.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank you all again for your patience and your kindness, especially all those of you who leave kudos, bookmarks, comments and messages. They're all incredibly appreciated! <333


	31. The personal blog of John H. Watson

The personal blog of John H. Watson

**A Study in the Mind of the Average Male University Student**

_March 29th, 2018_

Hits: 1895

 

I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer. But I did agree to start this blog, because something quite interesting happened to me.

A few months ago, back in January, someone liked a picture on my Facebook profile — a picture from three years ago. Can you believe it? I had no idea who it was, but we started chatting and got along pretty well. At the time, I had my sights on a particular someone who was nicknamed Stitch-Guy by my group of particularly dumb friends. I couldn't believe my luck when I understood that Stitch-Guy and Facebook-Guy were the one and same person, and nothing less than a gorgeous genius named Sherlock Holmes. Who was apparently stalking my profile because he was conducting a study on "the average male university student"? That much for my ego, eh.

Our first "meeting" was a bit of a disaster, and long story short, I ended up with a nosebleed. I'm pretty sure at that point that Sherlock never wanted to see my face again, but I convinced him on a first date at the anatomy lab. (If you're working there, please forget that detail right now. Thank you.) I guess I could have been clearer about my intentions of it being a date, because I'm not really sure he understood at the time, but by the second one I committed a mistake that nearly meant the end of our short association. I won't go into the details of that one, but it worked out fine in the end.

It's at the lab that I learned that Sherlock is not only a chemist, but also a brilliant detective. He was working at the time on a case for an anonymous client, who was stalked at a few pubs by the same man, over and over again, until he ended up with something in his drink, and fortunately, had a good friend to bring him back home safely. It was evident that was a victim of the stalker's— let's call him the Mayfly man — plan, and so Sherlock went on his trail, trying to prevent him from ever drugging someone else.

That part I wasn't aware of — remember, we weren't talking anymore at the time. Then, there was this party, and this weird man was talking to Sherlock. Not only talking to him but putting something in his drink _too_. Well, needless to say, I fucked up the stakeout.

It's at this point that I was sure that I'd never see Sherlock's face ever again. I was very, very, very wrong, because a phone call later we were sharing a fabulous first kiss. Again, I'll leave the details to your imagination on this one.

For those of you who are here for the case, I'll be quick about it: we found the Mayfly man at another party, but we were a lot more coordinated this time, and we finally caught him. (Thanks again for that, Greg!)

For those of you who are here for the romance, I won't be so quick about it: yeah, Sherlock and I are together, now. Boyfriends. Like, _officially_. Oh, and this is me coming out to the rest of you who do not know yet (sorry, Harry): yes, hello, I'm bi. Also, not interested. Did I tell you about my wonderful boyfriend? I feel like I haven't talked enough about him: he's a bit mad. Definitely a bit mad. He can be a bit rude, arrogant, at times, and certainly a bit public school (sorry, love), but he's also quite lovable. Charming. Gorgeous. Tall. Clever. Definitely the most clever person I know. It's quite a bit strange, actually. I'm not complaining. It's the best thing that ever happened.

We decided together to start this blog, because his is more scientific (check it out at The Science of Deduction if that's your kind of stuff!), and mine will be more about the cases we'll be working on from now on. And day-to-day life. I know that this is the era of blogs, going from the daily life of a pink chihuahua to dessert recipes that are actually autobiographical snippets. I don't know why anyone would read this amongst the hundred blogs that already exists, but I don't care. Just know that if you have any problem of any kind, you can email or text us, and we'll see what we can do about it. We'll definitely try our best. (Sherlock is telling me to insist on the fact that we'll solve it, but can we really offer a 100% guarantee? It's not like we can solve anything like the Bermuda Triangle. Sorry — scratch that, Sherlock says that it's actually not an area that witnesses more shipwrecks than any other in the ocean. Mystery solved, apparently.) Okay, so we can, and we _will_ solve your case. Just write to us.

I really don't know why Sherlock insisted that I have so kind of natural talent in writing. I'm re-reading this post and it's all over the place. Maybe it's because I'm just really head-over-heels.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he didn't stalk me, if he didn't like that picture from years ago. I don't think about it a lot, because I don't like it. It's really quite an array of coincidences that we got where we are today. I guess being the average male university student paid off, for once.

 

______________________________________________________

 

34 Comments

 

**[20:45] Greg**

Look, Molls! Our child finally spreading his wings on his own!

**[20:53] Sherlock H.**

Who are you?

**[20:55] John Watson**

It's "Gavin" from the group chat, Sherlock.

**[20:57] Sherlock H.**

Why are you calling yourself "Greg", then?

**[20:59] Molly**

Aaaaw!

 

**[21:02] Sherlock H.**

John "H." Watson?

**[21:05] John Watson**

You don't want to know.

**[21:07] Sherlock H.**

John Holmes Watson?

**[21:09] John Watson**

Nice try. ;) Maybe not just yet?

 

**[21:43] Mary Morstan**

Dear God, this is so cheesy. But also, congrats!

**[21:46] John Watson**

Thanks!

 

**[21:48] theimprobableone**

I'm your biggest fan, Sherlock, but… yikes.

**[21:49] John Watson**

Excuse you???

 

**[21:48] J. S.**

Thank you, again, Sherlock, and John.

**[21:50] John Watson**

You're quite welcome. I hope you're doing all right!

 

**[21:50] Mrs Turner**

I'm so happy for both of you, boys. I'll guess that I'll be seeing a lot more of John around here. Xxx (This is Mrs Hudson by the way.)

**[21:55] John Watson**

I don't think that I can be around more than I've been for the past few weeks, Mrs H, but thanks!

 

**[22:00] Mike Stamford**

No mention of me at all in that blog post? What kind of friend are you, John Watson?

**[22:02] John Watson**

Sorry Mike, as I've said, I'm a bit all over the place. But thank you, you know, for everything. ;)

**[22:04] Sherlock H.**

Everything?

 

**[22:07] Miss Adler**

Who said we didn't want the details?

**[22:10] Sherlock H.**

I. I said so.

**[22:12] Miss Adler**

Answer your phone, dick.

**[22:15] Sherlock H.**

Not falling into that trap again.

 

**[22:26] Harry W.**

Dude!!!!!!!!!

**[22:28] John Watson**

Yeah, I know. Talk to you soon.

 

**[22:43] Bill Murray**

Congrats, mate! Bring the bf around next time the team goes for a pint, okay? So we can decide which jogging route we’re going to take next semester. 3rd year chem students are in the biochem wing, btw. 

**[22:45] Sherlock H.**

I'm sorry, what?

**[22:48] John Watson**

I didn't know you knew about that…

**[22:50] Bill Murray**

Honestly, mate, you made us run three loops around the science building on every Monday for three months, stopping at the same spot overtime for the workout. There was an ongoing bet in the team for how long it would go on.

**[22:54] Sherlock H.**

???

**[23:00] John Watson**

I'll explain it later, Sherlock.

 

**[23:05] Sherlock H.**

John, you already know that I do not believe in coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy.

**[23:07] Sherlock H.**

Also, as I've stated before, there is nothing average about you.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the very near end of this story! There's only one more short epilogue to go, which will be posted very soon!


	32. Relationship Status

** Sherlock Holmes with John Watson**

 

 

In a relationship with **John Watson**

 

                                                          ^ **Greg Lestrade**

                                                         Well, that took its time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they made it Facebook-official. ;) (Today's version of riding off into the sunset, apparently! :P)
> 
> For those wondering, this is really young Martin Freeman (picture from blackstarjp on tumblr). Not very rugby jock, I know, but let's say John liked the picture because it's "artistic". Something Sherlock would endlessly tease him about (but he likes it too, of course). 
> 
> Big thanks to all the people that followed our boys chapter by chapter, especially those who took a bit of their time to leave comments behind, as well as kudos and bookmarks! I'm still a bit surprised about how well this fic has been received, and know that without our little interactions it would have been a lot less interesting to get this done. So again, thank you with all my heart! <333
> 
> In other news: I'm currently working on another project that I plan on posting in the fall. I have loads of other ideas as well, and there maaaay be a tiny tiny plan for a sequel at the back of my mind (or even a series? Only time will tell!). I'm not focusing on it right now, but if I plan to write it, it will probably be in the fall or next spring, as I like to write silly/fluffy more during the hardship that is university... Well, the boys certainly understand that. ;) If I do so, I'll make sure to tag on tumblr the people who were on the tag list for this one. I'm weneedtotalkaboutsherlock on tumblr, and you can ask me to be added on this list for the potential sequel. I'm also open to any rambles or questions you might have about the fic (or anything else, really!).
> 
> See you around, friends!


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